


The Missing Flower

by FluffyPaws



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Adventure, Drama, Gen, M/M, a bunch of animals for some reason, canoodling, the prequel that was written instead of that other thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-01-31 12:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 69,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12682212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffyPaws/pseuds/FluffyPaws
Summary: A young kinlord of Summerset sails to the heart of the Empire, seeking family and escape from responsibility. Instead, he finds himself framed for grand larceny, and his fate in the hands of rival houses. Prequel to The Penitent and BetterBeMeta's Foe-Tongue: A Historical Fiction.





	1. Family and Duty

As all things known and unknown to mortalkind were fixed to turn around one center, Altmeri life turned around spoken and unspoken law. There were as many rules as there were scales upon the innumerable scales of the Dragon. And one stood out among them all.

Family was everything. To honor the family was to honor the ancestors and the Aedra. To honor the family made the difference between the ascended hearing one's prayers or scorning them. On a more earthly level, family meant unbreakable bonds that would last centuries, for better or worse.

And as he made ready to travel to Tamriel, the young High Kinlord of Luxurene tried not to weigh sins against virtue, in leaving family to seek it.

He wasn't _really_ leaving. No, he'd be back in a year, two at the most. Sooner, if he were lucky. He'd spent the last weeks making arrangements to keep things running smoothly. The village would be fine. The guard and smiths had the best steel he could afford. The orchards were healthy and there was plenty of gold to keep extra food coming from the farms of Rosefield and Shimmerene. His stewards and canonreeve had been instructed to politely discourage the Thalmor from inviting themselves over in his absence. And not a single ancestor had felt the need to descend from Aetherius and reproach him. He wasn't _abandoning_ the duties passed down through his family. No, his will would remain.

There were matters of Summerset diplomacy to wrap up. He sat himself down in the throne of Luxurene one more time and spent a minute taking in the warm afternoon light through the floral stained-glass window before his herald approached.

“The High Kinlord of Firsthold sends his regards and invites you to attend a lecture at the Crystal Tower.”

What Kyndoril _meant_ to say was that he was wary of House Rilis. His mother, head of Luxurene for centuries, had been on good terms with them... back in the Second Era... but irreconcilable differences in ideology and politics had since arisen. And he had not forgotten the veiled slander at New Life.

“Silabaene can bite my arse.”

“Spoken like your esteemed mother, my lord. But how shall I phrase the reply?”

“The guilt of declining such generosity from the helm of Rilis tears at my heart like a ravenous beast. And yet I cannot attend.... No, trust me, he'll see my meaning.”

He would, of course, come up with a more suitable answer later.

And then there was a sister to reassure. A sister who was fast approaching adulthood – approaching that grand transition to a life where every responsibility was expected of a mer, yet they'd be seen as an untrustworthy _child_ for at least another century. It was a state Kyndoril knew too well, at fifty. And Cyrodwen, at her age, was not happy to take over his role, even for the brief months he'd be away. She had made that clear several times since he'd announced his grand plans.

She cornered him in his study, and he marked his place in the heavy tome before him. Galerion's _Introduction to Alteration_ would have to wait.

“First Vanus,” Cyrodwen snarled, “then Mother, now you.”

“You know why Vanus gave his life,” Kyndoril sighed. “And Mother still has a duty to the Mages Guild. But she won't be gone forever. And neither will I.”

“You're dropping the whole island on my shoulders and that's all you have to say?”

Kyndoril looked up. Her brow was creased, golden eyes betraying a youthful fear. And he had to soothe his own.

“No. I have a lot of faith in Luxurene, and in you. Should something happen to me, you'll make a fine Kinlady.” And, as he realized this had not been the reassurance she was looking for: “Auri-El willing, I'll return safe, as quick as I can. You have my word.”

–

The voyage was pleasant enough. The Abecean was calm, the food and wine were excellent, and he spent some days in the company of a charming mer from Shimmerene. Finally on one morning, word came down that the Gold Coast had appeared on the horizon. Cyrodiil awaited. And so he made his good-byes.

“I'd heard we arrived!” Ohmonir clasped his hand. “Auri-El go with you, friend.”

“I take it you're staying aboard?”

“I'm awaited in Velyn. Stars see you through your business here, whatever it is....”

In truth, Kyndoril had many reasons for visiting Cyrodiil.

There was his mother of course. He was reluctant to ask her to put aside the Mages Guild. But the long-simmering unrest on the Summerset Isles, the centuries-old resentment for the Empire, had begun to boil. Understandable, of course. He shared the sentiment and knew Mother had as well. But troubled times meant a harder job for lords, the Thalmor were eager as ever to press the nobility to consider Summerset's secession, and Firsthold and Lillandril were growing bold in their demands of him and his marital eligibility. In short, his holding needed wisdom he did not have.

Then there was a more personal ambition. A selfish, shameful one that he kept to himself. Sailing to Tamriel and walking the lands of Man were something of a rite of passage, for an Altmer. A great queen of the past had done it. Mother had done so too, at said queen's behest! And they'd both returned stronger, with experiences that could never be found in the great halls of Alinor.

His ambition shrank when he emerged on the deck of the Mer Maid and took in the sights. The gray stone wall, tall and unnerving, stretched far down the coast. In the distance, to the east, a castle perched on a great outcropping above the sea, as if daring it to rise and try to swallow it.

But where to begin...? Kyndoril straightened his new vest and walked the length of the dock, casting his eyes up the shore for anything that resembled a guild hall. Or perhaps a street.

“You look lost!”

Kyndoril looked down. A human had appeared at his arm.

“Is this your first time visiting Anvil?” The man wrapped an arm across his back, and Kyndoril froze. Nobody had warned him that Colovians were so fond of _touching_.

“It is,” he answered. “Do you... ah... know where I might find the Mages Guild?”

“Certainly! Just hold this a minute.... Now! Look down the road.”

Kyndoril didn't have time to see what the man pressed into his hands. But it was warm and a little heavy.

The man finally released him from his grasp, thank Stendarr, and asked, “Do you see that building with the centaur statue in front?”

“No.” Kyndoril's eyes swept over the wooden sheds, the warehouses, what might have been a pub.... “I don't see anything like that.”

No reply came. Kyndoril looked again, only to find that the man had disappeared. An uncomfortable feeling settled into his stomach as he opened his hand. A fairly intricate gold necklace with fine etching along the edge rested in his palm. Set into the center was the largest cut diamond he'd ever seen. And... did he detect a trace of magicka?

“Stop right there, elf! You! With the braid!”

As the feeling in his gut became a burn of anger and humiliation, Kyndoril turned to face half a dozen armed members of the Anvil guard.

“If you're looking for a thief, he was here less than a minute ago,” Kyndoril told them. “I've no idea where he vanished to.”

“What's that in your hand?”

He offered the necklace. “Evidence, I expect. Here.”

The nearest guard took it, and peered at it from beneath his steel helmet. “Gods! That belongs to the countess!”

And Kyndoril watched, uneasy, as part of the guard began to search the streets while two stayed uncomfortably close.

“You're coming with us.”

“I....” Before Kyndoril could move, rough hands seized his arms below the shoulders. “I protest! This is–”

“There are laws in Cyrodiil, elf!”

“You are making a terrible mistake. I've just stepped off the ship, I've never been near your countess.” And when the guards did not unhand him, he held up his hand to display his ring. “I am a kinlord of the Summerset Isles.”

“Do you have some proof?”

“My _ring_.” Surely the flower would identify him. It was so clear, after all. Surely everyone on the Abecean would....

His finger was bare.

“Stendarr's breeches,” Kyndoril whispered. Curse it all. Curse him for trusting the first human he met. Curse him for not wearing something else, some _clothing_ that proved his status, his birthright! Something that couldn't be slipped off a finger! “In... in any case, you... wouldn't honestly expect me to answer for a stranger's crimes.”


	2. Imperial Justice

A dungeon. His first night in Cyrodiil, and it was to be spent in a dungeon.

It wasn't even a proper dungeon. He hadn't expected the comforts of home, but at least Luxurene provided a bed and had the decency to throw its prisoners a _blanket_. Here the cells were cold, even as Sun's Height closed in, and his rough prisoner's tunic only brought a terrible itch.

Somehow, he slept. And he awoke with a stiff back, and the faint hope that time would prove his innocence. They would catch the thief who'd framed him. They would recover his ring. Everything would come to light, and he would be on his way. This would become nothing more than an embarrassing memory.

Hours passed. Dawn and noon were marked by the delivery of meals. But nobody else came to his cell, until he received an unexpected visitor.

“You're not a prisoner,” Kyndoril said, glancing at the brown and white dress. “And you don't look like you work in a dungeon.”

The Argonian blinked in reply. “I followed a rumor.”

Kyndoril walked a few steps forward to where he could get a better look out the bars and down the hall. No guards were in sight. “This area.... It's off-limits, isn't it?”

“It's not off-limits if the guard _says_ you can come in. And the guards are more likely to say you can come in when they see a shiny coin.”

“You... bribed your way in. Of course you did.” He caught his tongue a second too late. “I mean....”

“It was the easiest method, yes.”

“And... what do you want from me? What is this rumor that you heard?”

“Well, they said a High Elf was caught as an accomplice to a bold theft! Even worse, his partner was the Gray Fox himself.”

“The... oh no.” Kyndoril _had_ heard of this mysterious burglar; news of him had started spreading to Summerset years ago. The Gray Fox was the most notorious thief to plunder Morrowind and Cyrodiil. The bounty for his capture grew every season. The noose awaited him. And if hanging would be the fate of the Gray Fox, then.... Kyndoril sat before his knees could give out. “Oh, no no, no no no no....”

“This troubles you.”

“Yes, this 'troubles' me!” Kyndoril barked. The Argonian bared fangs, and he inclined his head in apology. “I'm sorry. But I can't die like this! My sister needs me. And... besides! Only the High King of Alinor or the Emperor of Cyrodiil can order my death! The guard, they... they don't even understand who they've arrest–”

“Fascinating.”

Kyndoril found himself jerked out of his whirlpool of panic. The Argonian had begun scratching something into a folio.

“So are you some kind of elf prince?”

“K...kinlord. I am a high kinlord. An elven king.”

“Go on, Your Grace.”

“You believe me?”

“Well, you might be telling the truth. Or you might be desperate to go free. Aside from that, I see no reason _not_ to believe you.”

“Then... take note of this. When I came here, I wore a ring. A simple-looking gold ring, but it bears an engraving of a helianthus. A... a sunflower.”

“I know what a helianthus is.”

“R...right. It's the symbol of my kinhouse, Luxurene. I think your Gray Fox took it when he tricked me into holding that necklace. I have _tried_ to explain this to the guard, but....”

The Argonian kept scribbling. And Kyndoril began to suspect that her reasons for visiting had nothing to do with charity.

“Apologies, but why exactly are you here?”

“Ah. Well, you see, those the river sweeps into the law are a focus in my line of work. I tell their stories.”

“Then you can prove my innocence?”

A dry silence fell over the jail.

Kyndoril felt his hope fade. “You're... a novelist. Aren't you.”

The Argonian nodded. “The humans just call me Quill-Weave.”

“Quill-Weave....” Kyndoril rallied his mind, and his nerve. “I am flattered by your interest. But I am in dire need of help, and if you could deliver my words to the captain of the guard, the... the countess, anyone who could order my release, I would be in your debt.”

Quill-Weave blinked again. “I can try for an audience with the countess. But I don't think it'll do you any good.”

“Well I've too much on the line, my neck included if I've guessed right. And... my story ends here if nothing changes in my favor.”

“Then perhaps you wish to do more than float along with the current...?”

“Yes! But, wait, what are you implying?”

Quill-Weave lowered her voice. “Swim to the side. Climb to dry land. Get out of the river. I am a strong swimmer....”

Kyndoril understood what Quill-Weave was suggesting. But... escape was too much of a challenge. If he'd committed no crime, that would change with a jailbreak. And Quill-Weave did not need to bring such trouble upon herself.

“I'll not have you break the laws of the Empire on my behalf,” he muttered.

“Why, sir, I am insulted.”

A sliver of metal clinked to the floor, just an inch from the bars of his cell, in easy reach of his long fingers. He stared at it, until Quill-Weave pointed at the lock of his cell.

“I would rather take my chances with the countess.”

–

Quill-Weave was a kind soul, despite her seemingly opportunistic attitude toward the incarcerated. She took Kyndoril's plea with her when she approached Countess Millona Umbranox. And she returned bearing news.

“It's no good. The Gray Fox's involvement means you _must_ be taken to the Imperial City. It might be different if you had some evidence you are who you say.”

“Then... I shall simply have to beg the ear of... the Emperor.”

A Septim. Relying on the mercy of a _Septim_. Thank goodness Mother wasn't around to hear of his impending shame. And all for some thief.

“But try not to worry too much. There might be a change in the river's course. Another High Elf from the Summerset Isles is visiting. Says he's from the court of Rilis, if you want to send another message.”

Kyndoril felt an embarrassed flush creep up, in spite of all the dignity he'd managed to cling to. To beg from Rilis was another humiliation entirely, but surely any mer of Summerset would see more merit in his word. If they had not heard his last rude message to Silabaene.

For a moment, he dared imagine his cell door swinging open, a dignitary waiting to greet him, to clear up all misunderstanding. But what business did Rilis have in Anvil of all cities?

“Did you catch a name?” Kyndoril asked.

“What was it.... Omen... Ohnomer...?”

Time froze, for a long instant. And Kyndoril remembered a handsome face, red hair, a charming smile. And he hoped that Quill-Weave had heard wrong. “Ohmonir?”

“Ah, yes. That was it.”

There was little time to order his thoughts, that the mer had deceived him, that this could not be a coincidence. But in all his fright, he managed one request:

“Get me out of here?”

“I'll ask him to help, then.”

“No!”

–

It technically was not illegal for Quill-Weave to drop some more metal bits outside his cell, where he could scrape them through the bars and begin fiddling with the lock on his door. It was not as if she would free him herself.

And it was not entirely unlawful for her to shift some servant's clothes to where he might easily find them. If anyone was the thief, it would be him.

And what was so bad about sharing gossip about a long-dead pirate queen having hidden passages all over the palace, leading out to a secluded cove? He might have heard it from any fool, and really, it was up to Empire, or at least the lords of the Gold Coast, to fix such a security risk.

Finally, he could not be blamed if she just happened to borrow a horse from the stables and leave it near his exit on the beach, nor could she be blamed if some thief happened to steal the horse that she had borrowed.

Theoretically, one might find the poor Argonian guilty of aiding and abetting the escape of a criminal. But Quill-Weave suggested it all and did not seem troubled.

“Were I capable, I would see you rewarded for this kindness,” Kyndoril whispered as Quill-Weave prepared to leave him. “Stars willing, I will repay this someday.”

“I erect the spine of gratitude. But I'll settle for the material you gave me. Stay moist, wayward elf lord.”

And so Quill-Weave left him to work on that lock.

To his relief, it clicked! Or... not. One of the picks had already snapped. He pulled the metal shard out gingerly and tried again.

What had he been thinking? Kyndoril gripped the next pick more carefully and searched for the hole again. He should have asked the Argonian to find him a key instead....

Clink!

Another wasted pick.

How did anyone do this?

Clink!

Kyndoril stared at the fragment of his last lockpick. So, this was how the day would end. Submission to a fate undeserved, broken bits of metal – evidence of his crime – on the floor of his prison, one Argonian whose aid had been in vain.

He would never return. Just like his mother. Just like Vanus....

Kyndoril paused. Vanus was gone, but he could still imagine the lecture he would have given him. How could he have forgotten? He had some magical ability, and few things in the world were insurmountable when one had a grasp of their workings and the appropriate magical theories to circumvent them!

Or, to put it simply, a spell could open a lock.

With a brief prayer for forgiveness, Kyndoril attempted to free himself. Something in the lock moved, but the door remained firmly shut. He tried again.

At least, he consoled himself as he attempted a third time, his magicka was a replenishable resource. Unlike the snapped lockpicks littering the stone.

After several minutes and the start of a mild headache, it worked. Kyndoril eased the door open, crept out, and pilfered a bag of supplies and a steel sword from the storage. He found the secret trigger Quill-Weave had described, heard the noise of machinery behind the dungeon stonework, and stole away before anyone could come to investigate. He did not risk disguising himself until he had put some distance and many corners between himself and the fake wall. And then he kept running.

The horse was waiting exactly where Quill-Weave had said it would be. He crossed the damp sand, gave the horse a reassuring pat as he took its reins, and then hesitated.

Where exactly was he going to ride? He had been so set on escaping that he had not considered what he would do with his freedom.

He thought of the docks – perhaps a sympathetic captain would grant him passage.

But there was the matter of his crime. It wouldn't be long before the guard noticed that he was missing from his cell, or discovered the method of his escape. And where would they look, to seek a mer who insisted he was from the Isles?

He cursed his lack of foresight and pulled himself up and into the horse's saddle.

Perhaps, if he reached another city before word spread, he would be able to return to his own business without much strife. Kvatch was east of Anvil. And surely whatever awaited there couldn't outdo his first day on the Gold Coast.


	3. Martin

News spread far too fast in Cyrodiil. Kyndoril had barely crossed the threshold into Kvatch when he heard rumors – an elf of his description had broken out of the Castle Anvil dungeon. A bounty of a thousand septims sat over his golden head.

Of course, there were many fair-haired Altmer, it would be impossible to inspect each mer who roamed the Gold Coast, and he doubted Cyrodiil would trace his magicka.... Unless they had, and it was only a matter of time before disgrace caught up with him.

He drove the thought from his head. At least none of those he passed were eagle-eyed. Kyndoril left the horse in the care of a stablemaster and joined the crowds in the streets, where he tried to resume his mission.

Asking for the Mages Guild only earned him grunts of impatience and exasperated looks. But a reluctant Nord woman took pity on him.

“Listen, elf friend. It is best you move on. This woman who calls herself a mage, she has nothing to offer you. Cat-folk, elves, elfy cat-folk.... They come to Kvatch to learn the clever arts, they all leave disappointed. You should go to Skingrad, learn _real_ magic from real wizards.”

“Well, I'm not a prospective student,” Kyndoril admitted. “I just need guild information. If you would _please_ point the way...?”

–

Nords, Kyndoril learned, were nothing if not brutally honest.

Sigrid was not exactly the magister of the hall, but one of the few mages remaining. And she wasn't a mage exactly, but an alchemist. The rest were wary of him.

“Estivel? That elven lady?” Sigrid's voice rose with anger, and Kyndoril wondered what on Nirn had happened to the guild. “She came here years ago, seeking our best on Galerion's behalf. Now they're all dead. Haven't seen her since.”

“Ah. I'm sorry to hear that. Many good souls fell before the King of Wor–”

“If that's all, then please leave us.”

Confident that neither he nor the idea of his mother were welcome at the Kvatch Mages Guild, Kyndoril thanked the alchemist and left.

There ended his hopes for Kvatch. The fatigue of his journey and troubles crept in again. But as he began to wander in search of an inn, he remembered just how little he had.

A septim. A single septim. That wouldn't get him a meal, or even a watered down drink, much less a room for the night.

He still had some bread and dried meat, but it was quickly going stale. Some kind of thin balm, one that was likely not for healing. Strips of bleached cloth. A single lockpick.

A sword. It would leave him with only a handful of septims at the most, if he could convince anymore to take it off his hands.

Nervous, he cast his eyes to the heavens. Stendarr, Mara, Auri-El help him....

The Aedra rarely answered directly. But he spotted a steeple over the rooftops.

Part of his mind protested, weakly, that seeking the shelter of the Imperial Divines was blasphemy. Treason. But his legs were already walking.

–

The first thing Kyndoril noticed about the Great Chapel of Akatosh was an odd, distinct burnt smell. Then it was the calm, almost serene air, and the soft lighting of stained glass and many candles.

Just like the Imperial temple in King's Haven (blight upon all things Aldmeri that it was), each window depicted some Alessian god. He passed the other worshipers in silence and quickly found Akatosh, who was, of course, at the front of his own chapel.

Akatosh, the god with two faces. The Dragon, gazing off to one side. The Man looking the other way. In his hands, an hourglass.

Auri-El, forgive me for approaching in the same house as Lorkhan, Kyndoril thought, too aware that a Talos window and shrine lurked nearby. But as sure as Y'ffre is in every leaf, you are in all places where Time flows. Hear me.

I've met terrible misfortune.

Kyndoril paused, with growing dread that he had only been making his own situation worse.

And I've perhaps reacted unwisely. But if this is not some nightmare, _help me._ Let me be guided by your hand.

Kyndoril then moved on to the rest of the shrines, out of respect and admittedly, boredom.

Dibella. May the people of this land come to appreciate your Secrets.

Arkay.... I hope I never need to call upon you, but I am thankful for your presence. Grant me strength.

Stendarr. Be with me now and always. Watch over my family. Grant them peace and your protection.

Julianos. Nice hair! Though I suppose no mortal can envision your true beauty, as the sun _is_ too bright to gaze upon.

Kynareth. The sky's beauty rivals the splendor of the Green, I'll give you that.

Mara. People really should listen to you more.

Zenithar. I... sense I have angered you? What on Nirn have I done to displease you?

Talos. No. Lorkhan. Just... let me and my family be, all right? Please. I'm asking as a mer of a human-conquered land, in the heart of their empire.

He came back to Auri-El. Look, I'm sorry, I had to say something to Lorkhan. I know you are here but things are bad enough and I don't want to take any chances with a curse.

And that was it. Sincere prayer completed, he wandered out of sight of the rest of the faithful and looked for a suitable place to rest.

–

Someone nudged his shoulder. Kyndoril opened his eyes, took in the darkness of the chapel, and saw the robed shape looming over him.

“You fell asleep.” The voice seemed tired, and curious, and might have been Colovian.

“I'm aware of that...”

“There are more comfortable places in Kvatch.”

Kyndoril squinted up at the man. Some priest, judging from the silhouette of the robe.

“Is there any place better than at the feet of the gods?” Kyndoril sighed, waving up at the image of Julianos. His corner had seemed like such a good place to sleep, being out of the way and hard to notice. “Except perhaps a bed conveniently located in the same place?”

The priest did not laugh. Or offer him a bed. “You don't look like a pilgrim. Or a beggar, for that matter.”

Gods, the man was nosy.

“And I thank you for not being drunk,” the priest went on. “However, the Primate of Akatosh bids me to pester those lingering within the chapel after hours.”

“I know little of Cyrodiil, but is it truly trespassing to seek shelter in a temple of the Divines?”

“It can be.”

“And what if one is not a beggar or pilgrim, but is... otherwise in need of... sanctuary?”

The smile in the man's voice was insufferable. “You know, as a priest, I'm still supposed to encourage you to surrender to the guard and pay your fine.”

“And then what? The Divines smile upon my virtue while I walk to the gallows, or the–”

“But _that_ complicates things. Very well. You may stay.”

Kyndoril found himself caught off guard. “What? I.... Well.... Thank you, priest.”

He adjusted his bag, poor pillow that it was, and laid his head back down. He waited for the man to walk away.

“You might want to move downstairs. The guards like to come and pray in the morning, but they won't intrude on our quarters without our invitation.”

“If... you insist.”

Kyndoril gathered his things and followed the priest to the belly of the temple.

–

Brother Martin was perhaps the first human to treat him with genuine kindness since his arrival in Cyrodiil. He offered a spare bed. A bit of food snuck from the stores became the best meal he'd had in days. And in the morning, he gave him a spare robe, plain and brown, because nobody in their right mind would suspect a monk of theft or jailbreak.

But Kyndoril was still warned – hidden though he might be from the eyes and suspicion of the guards, the Divines saw him and knew his deeds.

He posed a question. Wouldn't the Divines take pity on a mer who only broke the law to flee unjust sentencing?

Perhaps, but a crime against the Empire, for any reason, amounted to sin against the heavens.

Kyndoril, at this point, grew frustrated and asked if this had anything to do with the man who founded the Empire also being the head of the pantheon and much more likely to take offense than the rest of the gods, especially if said law-breaker was an elf.

Martin replied that Talos didn't judge elves more harshly than he judged men. And as Kyndoril frowned in visible disagreement, Martin pointed out that the link between crime and sin had existed long before Tiber Septim. For when the Divines granted their strength to Pelinal, and when Akatosh granted the Amulet of Kings to Alessia and made his Covenant, they had judged that the Empire had the holy right to rule all of Tamriel. Therefore, to challenge the law of the Empire was to challenge the will of the gods themselves.

There were far too many problems with that for Kyndoril to think of an answer. For one thing, crime was crime, sin was sin, and the Aedra did not judge mortalkind for petty misdeeds. But he kept his silence and decided to remember this insight into Imperial law.

There were also far too many questions raised by the assertion that the Divines would not hear the prayers of sinful or criminal mortals. If he, as a wanted mer, felt Stendarr's benevolence instead of scorn, was it because he had not actually sinned? Or did Stendarr not consider his crime sinful? Or was he merely imagining Stendarr's grace upon him? Was there a difference between Stendarr and Imperial Stendarr?

Martin gave a small nod to point out that Primate Dralgoner was near, then reminded him that the _Imperial Divines_ , in their grace, watched over all the Empire, from the volcanic hellscape of Morrowind to the crystal waters of Summerset. And then he offered that a humble monk had no business questioning Stendarr anyway, so that was between him and the god.

Kyndoril did not sleep easily that night.


	4. The Creator and the Trickster

With each day, the prospect of leaving the Great Chapel of Akatosh grew more frightening. But each day that Kyndoril spent hiding there was a day he was not finding his mother or returning home. So, after half a week, he said his goodbyes to Martin, who gave him food and a bit of gold for the road.

“There is a shrine not far from the city,” Martin said. “You might consider making an offering to Zenithar there, if he is displeased with you as you say. When you're done, turn east and follow the Gold Road to Skingrad. See if you can start a more honest life there.”

Kyndoril was surprised that the horse he retrieved from the stable was still 'his', but rode comfortably down the road to the shrine as Martin had advised. An old site, with a basin and columns carved of marble, it held a faint suggestion of an ancient magic – a hint that it was part of some web spanning Cyrodiil! Which was only natural, for a wayshrine.

He did not bother prostrating himself, or kneeling, or even bowing his head. Those things, Martin said, made pilgrims unobservant, an easy target for highwaymen and daedric cultists. Instead, he offered a septim.

Hello again, Zenithar. Or Xen. Are we still on poor terms?

The god seemed to feel nothing one way or another. So Kyndoril mounted again and went on his way.

The days-long journey to Skingrad was almost peaceful.

Almost, for on one afternoon he found himself approached by a bandit and was saved by the speed of his horse. He named the horse Gale and gave the thing a few extra minutes to eat his fill of grass the next morning.

Almost, for there were Ayleid ruins to the north of the Gold Road, but something gave Gale such a fright that he screamed and bolted, leaving Kyndoril holding on for dear life and practicing rudimentary healing magics on his sore legs and back that night.

Almost, for on another occasion, a small human, dressed from head to toe in leather armor and fur, streaked across the road. She yelled insults that might have been Aldmeris, but in some odd dialect, felled her troll opponent with a well-aimed arrow, and then turned her wolf-mantled face toward him. Before he could decide which direction to flee in, the strange barbarian offered him a friendly wave and departed north through the brush. Kyndoril kept a better watch on the roadside after that.

At last, on a cloudless Sun's Height day, Gale carried him to the gates of Skingrad.

–

Kyndoril had to wipe his brow as he traversed the streets. He had never noticed that the radiance of Magnus could be so... harsh. Now he longed for Summerset robes – looser, tailored, and perfect for reflecting away the more extreme part of Magnus' gift.

And not so scratchy. Did the priests of Cyrodiil dress in their wool as an act of penance? Why settle for flagellation when one can itch for eternity, Kyndoril supposed.

He found the West Weald Inn before reaching the Mages Guild. He hesitated at the door, then decided that he had been stalled for so long that there was no point in not taking a night's rest. He stepped into the cool sanctuary of the tavern....

And was immediately accosted by an angry Nord woman who was not thrilled that he was dressed like a priest, and wanted to know if he _was_ one of the clergy.

On one hand, no. On the other hand, wasn't that his chosen disguise?

Back to the other hand, she had a large sword buckled at her hip. And, so did he, but she looked more in the mood to use hers.

“I am nothing more than a pilgrim, madam....”

This earned him a scathing rant on the uselessness of the gods, to which he sheepishly agreed, but Else God-Hater was not to be fooled. She declared him two kinds of spineless – a milkdrinker who asked false gods to solve their problems, and a coward who broke under pressure. The Nord shoved him aside and left the inn.

She was right about the coward part, he thought, as he asked each of the gods one at a time to forgive his moment of weakness. Especially Lorkhan, for it would be inviting trouble not to at least acknowledge him while reassuring the Aedra that he was still faithful. And then Auri-El, again, for acknowledging Lorkhan. Again.

The pilgrim lie served him well at the counter, at least. The innkeeper was charitable enough to offer a lower fee to a pious wayfarer who swore not to cause trouble in her fine establishment. Kyndoril ate well, then climbed the stairs to a quiet room, where he shed his terrible robe at last and crawled into bed....

–

A Fox had waited for him and now sat on his chest. His pelt was the night sky. His teeth were bloody diamonds.

A Dragon coiled around them, lustrous, bright, and gold even in the darkness.

These things were, Kyndoril hoped, not real. Or, to be more accurate, he hoped they did not exist in the mortal realm, unless he was dreaming and in the realm of his own mind, and that the Fox and Dragon had not stolen him to another plane entirely.

“Auri-El?” he asked of the Dragon.

It replied, in a great voice, yet without opening its mouth: “SEPREDIA WELKEIS.”

Peace of the heavens?

Kyndoril turned his head back to the Fox perched over his heart.

“And what are you supposed to be?”

“I AM YOUR FUTURE. I WILL DEVOUR YOUR HEIRS AND YOUR LANDS. YOU WILL LIVE, AND EACH DAY YOU EXIST AND PRAY TO YOUR GODS, YOU WILL DO SO AS MY WILLING SERVANT.”

Kyndoril stared this aspect of Lorkhan directly in the void of his eyes for a moment.

“You know,” said Kyndoril, “when the gods or their messengers appear before mortalkind, they usually start with, 'Do not be afraid.'”

As Lorkhan grinned, Kyndoril looked to Auri-El for help. Auri-El did not seem troubled. “SEPREDIA. DO NOT BE AFRAID.”

If it was possible to blush in a dream, or wherever he was, Kyndoril did.

“I AM YOUR FUTURE,” said the Dragon. “YOUR FAMILY AND YOUR HOME WILL KNOW LOVE AND PEACE, AND YOU WILL BE AMONG THEM, COMFORTABLE AND BELOVED.”

“Are... are both of these things true?” Kyndoril asked, looking from the Dragon to the Fox. “Because if you're really Auri-El and Lorkhan, I have a feeling you're both going to make all of these things true.”

The Dragon answered again. “YOU SHALL TAKE THE SEED OF THE FUTURE AND CARRY IT FORTH, AND IN TIME, YOU SHALL ENTRUST IT TO THE PAST.”

Kyndoril prayed that this was a metaphor and that in this place, Auri-El and Lorkhan could not hear his unspoken prayers.

But the Fox laughed.

Kyndoril woke up alarmed, unable to move, unable to even breathe as the dread ghostly Fox sat there and crushed his chest. And as the weight lifted and he finally drew air, he saw the Fox bound away and disappear into the shadow.

And he knew a terror that he could not explain, or name. Blamed a dream with details that he couldn't remember – only the darkness, the sun, and so many stars....

He sank back into the soft mattress, cold with his sweat, and turned his thoughts to Stendarr.

–

The magister of Skingrad's guild hall was easy to find. She was the one most engaged in her study, and most bothered that she had been disturbed from her work. Once the traditional polite apology for interrupting her had been made, Kyndoril asked his question.

After Kvatch, he'd feared that he would be met with hostility. But Adrienne Berene considered Estivel _very_ worth her time.

“ _The_ Estivel? The Kinlady?”

“Yes. If you could tell me anything – _any_ news of her – I would be grateful.”

“And you are...?”

“Her son.”

Adrienne's brow wrinkled. “You know, I think I believe you. Well... Kinlord, is it? You should know that Estivel visited us only months ago! She was terribly angry, absolutely furious with the King of Worms. She never did forgive him for Vanus Galerion's death, you know.”

And Kyndoril remembered, in that moment, a highlight of his childhood. The Great Mage himself, showing him a rainbow of magelights, teaching him how to channel his magicka into a tiny light of his own, just like so many Altmeri children learned to do.

Vanus had been so proud. And Mother had been so fond of him.

“After such a long friendship.... Oh, I'm only fifty myself. I can't imagine,” Kyndoril murmured.

The look from Adrienne reminded him that he was talking to a human, who would probably grow old and pass to Aetherius before his face even wrinkled.

“She seemed to think that Mannimarco had returned from the grave. Again! It shouldn't have been possible. They say that after the great battle, his body was thoroughly destroyed, and the land was scoured for anything that such a lich could use to return.”

“And... what about his soul?” Kyndoril asked.

“Divines, that's what she wanted to know. But wasn't she there?”

“Grief is not well tolerated by Altmer. We tend to lose track of what exactly we're doing, what is happening, and then we question it all for decades. But I would think she took every precaution to destroy the King of Worms, even as she grieved for Vanus.”

“She wasn't so sure,” Adrienne sighed. “But, she did cool her head and donate a considerable amount of gold and books before leaving!” She waved at a bookshelf across the library. “A wealth of Second Era knowledge, simply _conjured._ ”

“And do you know where she went? I just came from Kvatch, but....”

Adrienne's already pale face went a strange white. “ _Kvatch?_ We do not speak of Kvatch.”

“They... er... were not too fond of her there,” Kyndoril told the magister. “What happened?”

“You don't _know_?”

Kyndoril knew many things about his mother. Many scandalous things. He knew that his mother had run away from home at a young age under the pretense of joining the Mages Guild. She'd married a Khajiiti woman. She'd walked into Coldharbour with so many other brave souls. And then she had returned to rule her kinhouse and the little isle of Luxurene, as if nothing had happened.

But, he had been told nothing of Kvatch. So he shook his head.

“It happened only a few years ago. She was gathering the guild to meet Mannimarco in battle, as you know. But the magister of Kvatch and many of his students were exposed as necromancers in service to the Worm King. Worse yet, they forgot that they were facing an elven veteran of the Planemeld and attacked. Only the weak and the innocent initiates were spared, left for the church to heal their wounds and hearts.”

“I... think I pity them,” said Kyndoril.

But Adrienne shook her head. “As for the Kinlady's whereabouts, when we last spoke she told me that Chorrol and Bruma were of interest to her. Good luck to you in your search, Your Grace.”

And this was his cue to leave, unless he _wanted_ to go to the trouble of asking for more of her time. But he had no other questions, so he gave a small bow and his thanks and saw himself out.

If his knowledge of Cyrodiil's lands was accurate – and he had of course studied the maps before leaving – Chorrol was somewhere far to the north of Skingrad. The real question was whether to continue following the Gold Road to the Red Ring and then make his way west from the Imperial City, or to cut through the Great Forest.

The Fighters Guild, renowned as much as the Mages Guild during his mother's time, seemed like a good place to ask. When they advised him to hire a bodyguard before wandering into the highlands, he decided to trust their knowledge and simply stick to the road as the good Emperor intended.

But a sudden gust and the growl of thunder caught his attention as he stepped back out onto the streets. Towering clouds threatened from the west. And once again he sought the shelter and charity of the inn.


	5. High Kinlord Silabaene

Y'ffre's wrath. Khenarthi's clawed blessing. Pyandonean outbursts. The people of the Summerset Isles had many fun euphemisms for hurricanes, but the storm, loud and fierce as it was, had been no hurricane. Kyndoril was able to leave the inn for the market a mere hour later as a hot mist rose from the city streets.

He had not gone far when he heard what he had been dreading.

“Halt in the name of the Emperor!”

And four of the city guard approached him.

Kyndoril had feared this moment for weeks. And he had envisioned such an encounter many times, as he curled up in the night, whether beneath the stars or in the safety of a bed. He had dared to imagine battles, the swordplay of a kinlord of Summerset. Or a bold attempt to evade the guards on foot. Or, if he remembered himself, a calm and dignified argument, a defense of his character. Failing that, a witty insult in the face of inevitable capture.

But who was he kidding; _they were the guard, and they had swords._

“Mara's heart.... I... I yield,” Kyndoril said as the men closed in. Then remembered his monk's robe. “Whatever do you want with me?”

“Don't play stupid, thief.”

“Sirs, I am but a humble pilgrim....”

The guards took hold of his arms, and one of them drew the sword at his waist. He turned the blade over, inspecting the metal and the hilt. Kyndoril braced for the revelation.

“I knew it! This sword's from Castle Anvil!”

“First Countess Umbranox, then the barracks, and now the church? Have you no shame, elf?”

Kyndoril felt his ears burn as he remembered Martin's face. His accursed smile. His mischievous eyes. He could still hear his smug warnings to just approach the guards sooner of his own will. “The robe was a gift.”

“So you admit it,” said one of the guards. “Don't think you can escape justice this time.”

“You're making a terrible mistake,” Kyndoril moaned. And as the guards began to drag him off, he turned his head back to the Mages Guild hall. “The magister. The magister knows me. She'll vouch for me!”

They chose not to hear him. And Kyndoril returned to the cold dark of Imperial prison.

–

He was, at least, allowed to keep the robe that Martin had given him. That was the single kindness that he was he afforded underneath Castle Skingrad. Castle Skingrad, where the dungeons were flooded with a foul chill and an air of death. Or maybe the watch just didn't bathe. It was hard to say.

Cyrodiil still planned to send him to the Imperial City. But Skingrad did not hesitate to question him. And he repeated his story, again and again.

He was a high kinlord of Summerset. He was only seeking to connect with family. He had been waylaid by a thief and framed and found his signet ring stolen, and could not prove his identity.

The one part he could not deny was the fact that he had broken out of the dungeon and hidden from the guards ever since. And that was an awkward topic he had not anticipated. Whatever his reasoning in Anvil, it seemed weak and unwise to explain. It was much easier to let the guards think him reckless but regretful of his actions. But he did not betray Quill-Weave or Martin.

Just as expected, the guards did not believe his claim of innocence in the Castle Anvil heist. And he still had to answer for the rest of his crimes. But maybe Martin was right, Kyndoril told himself. Maybe acceptance of _this_ setback would give him a chance to right all wrongs. So, he began planning what he would say to the Emperor when the time came. Surely the Emperor would be more reasonable than Skingrad's best interrogators.

The next morning, the guards announced that a visitor had come for him. They would not answer his question as to who it was, but led him to a secluded room where a generous breakfast had been arranged on a small table. There was seating for two.

Kyndoril was left there alone, to take his seat and wait, to eye his food and wonder if his visitor would care if he had a bite before they arrived. Would they notice if he started on the eggs?

Hunger and impatience, however, were soon replaced by inexplicable discomfort, then fear.

The door opened again, and he heard a familiar Alinoran voice. “No, do not trouble yourself. I will speak to him alone.”

Oh. Well. Shit.

Kyndoril jammed one of the rolls of bread into his mouth so he wouldn't have to speak right away.

Another mer stepped into the room and the door shut behind him. Kyndoril looked, briefly, into the violet eyes of High Kinlord Silabaene of House Rilis, and was met with an eerie calm and disdain. And in spite of himself, he let his gaze drop to the mer's boots.

There were a thousand problems. What was this mer doing in the West Weald of Cyrodiil, so far from the comfort of Auridon? Why on Nirn had he chosen to visit him in jail? How had he known? How could he have arrived in such a swift manner?

Worse, had he received Kyndoril's last words to him? Had he been given the first message, about his arse, and biting it? What was he going to _do to him_?

Kyndoril forgot that he had stuffed his mouth. “Fi'fol' ve'rations.”

“I heard a rumor that a mer claiming to be a kinlord was twice apprehended. Tell me, where is that mer?”

Kyndoril grumbled and swallowed. “He sits before you.”

“I see only a lowlife’s misbegotten habit.”

Silabaene had not bothered hiding his status. The mer had all the elegance of an Altmeri lord; he stood tall and proud, and observed as an eagle might watch from its perch. Despite centuries of life, his face still had that ageless look that other mer coveted and men feared. His hair was perfect, immaculately braided. And his silk robes were dark as the night sky.

And gods, Silabaene's presence was as heavy as the night. Kyndoril was grateful for the misshapen lump of a candle on his table.

“Stendarr's breeches, Silabaene, what do you want me to do? Beg?”

The other kinlord smiled. “You held yourself high, from atop your island’s minor throne. I would hate to see you lower yourself to receive my favor.”

“Of course. I doubt you came all this way to wring an apology from me.” Or perhaps that was the entire point. But Kyndoril lifted his fork and started prodding at the eggs on his plate. “I know I have you to thank for this. But what I don't understand is why.”

“Does a sapling ask why Magnus shines?”

Kyndoril tried to keep his face neutral. Yes, yes, he was young, and Silabaene was old and respected and influential. But such an arrogant comparison could be ignored, if he'd decided to offer himself as a savior. Though, at what cost...? Or had he merely come to gloat? That the other mer had not even taken his seat was worrisome.

“How did you find me?”

“I heard a rumor. And here you are. Is it true, boy? Did you assist the Gray Fox in a burglary?”

“Stars, no.”

“Then I'm to imagine that you were deceived by a common thief?”

Kyndoril resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“The misdeeds of men aside, the rest is true. My ring is lost, and I was unable to prove my own identity. I did escape, I did flee from Anvil, and here I am, for my trouble.”

“What a shame. I might have saved you from the dungeons of Anvil, given but a day.”

And then Kyndoril remembered exactly why he had fled. He dared to look up at Silabaene again, and found his face expressionless. The older, more experienced lord had probably seen the guilt in his eyes.

“Remind me, Kyndoril. What is the penalty for assisting such a high profile criminal, in Cyrodiil?”

Kyndoril said nothing, only felt his heart drop.

“And I doubt that your bold escape and jaunt across the Gold Coast will endear you to any judge, let alone the Emperor.”

“Silabaene, I–”

“Nor do I imagine that His Majesty the High King of Alinor will be pleased with your deeds, your embarrassment to the Summerset Isles.”

“Your Grace–”

“Perhaps it was best that the Empire located you before you could bring more shame upon Aldmeris.”

Kyndoril cursed himself for what he prepared to say. “I'm sure that a few words from Your Grace would clear up all misunderstanding. Not to mention display a more worthy example of Aldmeris.”

“An unexpected request from the High Kinlord of Luxurene.”

“Please! I'm nothing here without my ring, but everyone on the Abecean knows of Firsthold and House Rilis.”

“To think that you would truly stake your hope in me.”

Kyndoril set his fork down, before he could continue bouncing it against his hand. “I... must admit... that... hope is a charming little thing to feel, in my position.”

Silabaene gave him an unfamiliar stare. Was it humor? Sympathy?

“I must know. What brought you to this land?” Silabaene said. “A fit of boredom? Desire to know what lies beyond our fair shores?”

“Well... perhaps it was.”

“Come, then.”

A dark ripple appeared in the space of the little room.

“Is that a portal?” Kyndoril breathed. “Heavens. I haven't seen one of these in years.”

“Go. And know that I forgive your tongue.”

Kyndoril eyed the portal, unsure if after everything, fleeing again was the best approach.

“Skingrad won't be happy with me.”

“Oh, they won't. But they will trust the word of Rilis.”

Kyndoril swallowed his apprehension, straightened his hair, and gave a quick bow. Then he stepped into the portal and let it take him.

The tiny room was replaced by someone's bedchamber. Someone's very well-kept, decorated bedchamber. And as he noted the Colovian stonework, the expensive detail of the blankets and pillows and rugs, he turned to retreat.

But the portal was gone.

–

The Imperial City was days away, even by horse and cart. But eventually, he and his heavily armed escort did arrive. And as he was carted through the streets, he turned his eyes and thoughts to the heavens, with prayers for Auri-El and Stendarr. Lorkhan of course received a plea for mercy, that the humans would continue to stay their hand.

The prison was a foreboding tower somewhere outside the city walls. Or so it appeared from outside. He found himself led instead down a twisting staircase, where the air thickened with a strange malevolent _presence_. Something horrible – something no mortal was capable of – had taken place there. Which was saying a lot, considering the nature of human dungeons and what often became of their prisoners.

The guards seemed completely unaware of this. Guards were used to death, he supposed....

And so resumed his life as a prisoner. The cold, the unsatisfying food, the escape into an odd dream or a nightmare. The stiffness in his limbs and neck each time he awoke. The regular questioning. The threat of the axe.

Kyndoril did manage to stall for more time by reminding them of his position. He could not _prove_ that he was a kinlord. But there was too much risk in torturing or executing him.

The weeks dragged out. Finally, there came a day when it seemed there was no more to wring from his memories, no more of his reserve of sarcasm, no more patience remaining in the Empire. And the watch led him deeper into the prison, to a new cell.


	6. End of an Empire

“Well, well.... Look at the high and mighty Altmer!”

Kyndoril raised his head, only to smack his nose into the bars. Through watering eyes, he saw him. A Dunmer, leering from the cell across the cramped hall.

“Where's your dignity now, huh? Where's that famous High Elf poise and bearing?”

His famous High Elf poise and bearing were still in the dungeons of Anvil. He had left them behind when he appeared in the count's bedchambers, when High Kinlord Silabaene left him to deal with the displeased court of Skingrad. And that was assuming his poise and bearing had ever existed.

“Such things have no meaning here,” Kyndoril answered. “Come, now. We're both mer imprisoned by Cyrodiil. No need for us to–”

The Dunmer cut him off. “Let me guess. You're a thief.”

“What?”

“A pretty face, charming words, eagerness to deflect a conversation.”

The door's steel bars were rough in his fists. “I'm a _lord_ of the Summerset Isles.”

“Truly? By the Three, that's even worse.”

“Are you, by any chance, of House Dres?”

The other mer frowned. “Where'd you get an idea like that?”

“Only a guess. Morrowind has to send its trash somewhere.”

“Azura curse you!”

“She already did! With your presence!”

An angry woman joined their fight, from somewhere to Kyndoril's left. “Hey! How am I supposed to sleep on these damn rocks with you two making a racket?”

Kyndoril rolled his eyes, but the Dunmer snarled in offense. “Watch your tongue, witch!”

“Watch yours, corpse lover.”

Before he could say anything else, there was a strange, fiendish bark from her direction.

“Easy, girl,” whispered the woman. “He's not worth it.”

A necrophiliac and some heathen, daedra-summoning witch. What perfect company to have while he waited for the Imperial justice system to return to him.

He heard the grate of iron hinges somewhere above, and his heart started to race, as it so often had in the last weeks. His new Dunmeri friend took notice.

“Do you hear that? The guards are coming. For you!”

Kyndoril bit back a rude retort and listened to the voices moving down the stairs. More than one, tense and hushed. Something had happened.

“Please, Sire, we must keep moving.”

Something had happened, and he wanted no part of it. Kyndoril backed away from the bars and threw himself out of sight, onto the rough straw bed in the little alcove of his cell. Then he closed his eyes and listened.

The cell door creaked open, and as Kyndoril cursed his running streak of bad luck, heavy boots drew near.

“A prisoner? This cell is supposed to be off-limits!”

Kyndoril flinched and opened his eyes. “What?”

Looming over him was a human in steel armor, its plates layered and bound in Akaviri fashion. A Blade? But why would the Blades of all people enter the prison?

“Stand aside, prisoner! Over by the window!”

“Right. If you insist.” Kyndoril pushed himself to his feet and began to move.

Then he saw him. A very old Cyrod man, in a long, gilded, fur-trimmed robe. He could have been any nobleman, had it not been for the large red jewel dangling by a thin golden chain around his neck.

Kyndoril thought of his options, his own station, that nobody knew or cared about his station. So he moved beneath the small window as ordered, dropped to his knees, and bowed low. Stendarr willing, that would be all they demanded.

But the man spoke. “Let me see your face.”

There was no disobeying a command of the Emperor. Kyndoril sat up and raised his head to look at him. The sight surprised him. The Emperor was, of course, old by human terms. But the man looked softer, more tired, more wrinkled than he had expected.

“You are the one from my dreams,” said the Emperor. “Then the stars were right, and this is the day.”

Oh, if only the Emperor knew of the more common prose of elven romances. Kyndoril did not attempt to point out the humor.

“Gods give me strength.”

Kyndoril finally found his voice again. “My... my liege, what troubles you, if I am now an omen of ill fortune?”

“Assassins have attacked my sons, and I am next. My Blades are escorting me to safety.”

“W-What? Then, please!” Kyndoril waved at the Blades, and saw that one of them had somehow vanished part of the wall behind his bed. A hidden passage waited. “Go!”

“But you are no omen. I believe the gods have placed you here so that we may meet.”

Kyndoril did not like to imagine that the gods moved people with a series of bad decisions and mishaps. But he was not prepared to say such things to the Emperor. And he was not oblivious of the potential – the opportunity to prove himself before the man who could pardon him. So instead, he asked, “What would the gods want from me?”

–

The Emperor allowed him to follow him out of his cell, through the hidden passage. Then some fiends in conjured daedric armor attacked. Their deaths broke the summoning and left them to bleed through vivid pink and violet robes. And Kyndoril, unarmed and growing more fearful, wondered what on Nirn had happened that the Blades and guards could not combat in the city above.

One of the Blades had died. And the others located a door that they would not allow him to pass through, despite the Emperor’s trust in him. They locked it behind themselves, leaving him with the still-warm bodies. As if they expected him to just return to his cell like a good mer and forget these moments had happened.

He waited a minute, huffed at the locked door, and muttered, “Absolutely not.”

The door did not respond to magic, curse it. But it might have been his reckless attempts to force the spell that loosened the old bricks in an adjacent wall, leaving him with another way out.

Kyndoril had never killed anything before, but with the scent of blood came more attention, in the form of overgrown rats hellbent on biting his legs. He snatched up the sword that the fallen Blade had dropped.

He gained some scratches, but the rats were dead. Then his own realization that he had just looted a corpse punched him in the gut. Worse yet, respect for the deceased or not, there were likely more hungry rats to come.

“Forgive me,” Kyndoril whispered to the Blade. “But I need this now.”

Then he thought he might also need the satchel that one of the assassins was carrying. There was little to say to someone who had just tried to kill him and the Emperor. He hurried through the broken wall before anyone else could arrive.

Thus began the first trial of the gods: the cave of unusually large and vicious rodents.

How many people had tried to escape through the tunnels, Kyndoril worried as he came across skeletons. Skeletons long picked clean. Skeletons with armor and weaponry so old that it might have been from....

Kyndoril brushed the cobwebs off a shield. A lion, mouth opened in a fierce roar, was emblazoned on the otherwise hideous work. Mother always said the Daggerfall Covenant had been brimming with proud fools.

It wasn't long before he wished he'd taken the battered, rusty shield, for his new sword was all that he had to place between himself and _the risen dead_.

Of course he knew a few things about dueling. And fending things off with a sword in general. Mother had seen that he received lessons as any fledgling lord would. But reanimated bodies proved to be a greater challenge than expected.

Stars! The tutors had explained dealings with the dead before. The spirits were to be respected at all times, unless they were evil in life. They were to be appeased or given space if angered. They were forcefully banished back to Aetherius through mortal violence as a _last resort_. Usually while apologizing and asking them to rest.

The things that lurked under the Imperial prison did not respond to prayers or apologies. But swords worked. And so did fire, as he soon remembered. Fire was easier; as simple as extending his hand and willing his magicka to become a fierce heat. Unfortunately, fire had the effect of filling the already reeking tunnels with the scent of _burning_ decayed flesh.

Then there were goblins. Fire was his defense again. Most were driven back by the heat and he hurried on his way, leaving them to tend to their burns.

The solid, even, predictable stonework of the Imperial City underground came back into view. Bright torches and lamps lit the way. Relieved, eager to be free of giant rats and the dead, Kyndoril began to sprint–

The floor was hard. And painful. And cold. Kyndoril rolled over, saw the wall behind him, and estimated that he had just fallen ten feet. After poking around his ribs, testing his joints, and checking for blood, he set to the draining process of patching himself up.

–

The Emperor and the Blades found him searching the room for his dropped sword. The Blades were quick to assume high treason. The Emperor held them at bay and chose to talk about fate, death, and the stars as they walked through the passages. Kyndoril learned little, other than that the Lord would assist him somehow. The Emperor was as sure of this as he was of the idea that he was going to be murdered shortly, which was not exactly a comfort.

The Emperor's fears were justified. The assassins did not take long to find them again. And in the end, Kyndoril found himself walked into a trap with the Emperor and the Blades.

A dead-end. No way out but through a gate that had been locked ahead of them. The two Blades ran to face their pursuers, while Kyndoril waited with Uriel Septim VII.

And once again, Kyndoril battled discomfort as a Colovian man stood far too close, took his hand, and pressed a necklace into his palm. The Red Diamond itself, rimmed with gold that was studded with precious gems, attached to a gleaming chain. It was colder than he expected.

“Sire, why are you giving me this?” he whispered.

“I can go no further,” said the Emperor. “You alone must stand against the Prince of Destruction and his mortal servants.”

“Prince of–!” Kyndoril raised his head to stare at the Emperor, then glanced over his shoulder, afraid that the Prince himself would break through the floor and engulf them in flames. No, no, out of all the Emperor's talk of the Aurbis, this was the worst. And the disbelief that he'd held back broke free at last. “Mehrunes Dagon. Are you serious? _Do I look like His Majesty's battlereeve to you?_ ”

And, to his panic, the Emperor held only a kind smile. Where had he seen that face...?

“Take my amulet. Give it to Jauffre. He alone knows the location of my last son. Find him, and close shut the jaws of Oblivion.”

“But, I....!” Kyndoril could think of no argument. There was no arguing with the Emperor, was there? Perhaps not but.... “Very well.”

Kyndoril lowered the Amulet of Kings into his bag and fastened it tightly. Then he drew his sword again and turned to face the gate. If the Emperor was determined to die, if he was determined to abandon him with some ghastly burden, then he would simply have to make sure the Emperor's prophecy never came to pass.

“But Oblivion take me if any Dagonite gets past this door!”

He imagined, for a moment, what his Mother might have felt centuries ago, as she watched the Veiled Heritance besiege their own islands with dremora and the fires of the Deadlands.

Then he heard a terrible gasp, a dying breath, and a heavy thud on the hard floor behind him.

Kyndoril turned, startled, and saw the Emperor lying face-down, a pool of blood spreading from under his fine robes.

And the one who'd killed him, another fiend in bound daedric armor, raised his wet blade to him.

The one under the armor said... something. Kyndoril would attempt to remember it later, and be unable to recall. But he would remember that one of the Blades – yes, the one called Baurus – shoved him aside to pass. And then the last assassin fell dead.

Baurus found him watching from the floor. And Kyndoril, still numb and confused, began to explain.


	7. Will of the Septims

The Chim-El Adabal. The accursed Amulet of Kings, a jewel stolen from the Ayleids and repurposed for the dominion of Man. The key to Mannimarco's ambitions at one point, Mother had told him. The blood of Lorkhan himself.

Such a thing could only be evil. And yet now Kyndoril's only purpose was to see it delivered to the safety of Weynon Priory, where men hoarded history and sang praises to Talos.

And he would have to accomplish this with thousands of septims on his head – if word of his escape got out. Baurus told him that he shouldn't expect immediate problems. He had been in jail for a few weeks, long enough to be forgotten. But he hadn't been able to promise him anything. Secrecy was vital to finding the Emperor's hidden son before the enemy, and the Blades did not have the power to exonerate him.

At least, with the coins he'd found on his way to safety, getting food would be no obstacle. At least not for a few days. The real challenge was emerging from the wilds of island, in the dead of the Last Seed night, and approaching the city gate in his disheveled state as if this was not at all strange.

The weary pilgrim disguise served him well again when he finally found an inn. He paid a discounted fee, dragged himself up the stairs, and shut the door to the outside world at last.

Kyndoril dropped his things at the foot of the bed, shed his robe, and hid under the blankets.

Close shut the jaws of Oblivion, the Emperor had said. As if some poor fool trapped in the belly of the prison could have done that.

He never would have been in that prison if not for his mistakes. It would have been so much easier to wait in Anvil. Or to give Silabaene the satisfaction that he'd probably wanted. Damn him, he could be free, or on a ship bound for Summerset, or home.

But no. He'd done things the hard way and taken too many risks, without a thought for any consequences. Clearly this was Xen's price for his foolishness.

As sleep began to take him, he reached to Auri-El. But the Dragon had no answer for him.

This doomed quest came from the Septims, did it not? Kyndoril imagined the Void staring through him. Thought of the Red Diamond in his possessions.

Very well, Lorkhan, he thought. Say what you will.

–

If Lorkhan and Xen wanted him as some pilgrim, they had him. Kyndoril left the Imperial City and steadily made his way west. Weynon Priory would not be difficult to find, a guard told him. He would merely need to follow the Black Road as if heading for Chorrol. But the journey would be long on foot.

And it was. The land beyond the Red Ring was all forest and steep hill, dotted with the ruins of abandoned forts, places that had likely not seen much use since the Tiber Wars. These sites made decent shelters during the night. Sometimes, the greenery was broken up instead by Ayleid marble and stone. But after what had been at least a week, the Great Forest began to rise and give way to the famed Colovian Highlands.

Stone walls and a chapel came into view at last. There was only one person outside – a Dunmer weeding a garden beneath a large house. The mer caught the sound of his approach and turned.

“Ah.... Another pilgrim?”

“In a way,” Kyndoril sighed. “I'm looking for Jauffre.”

“He's inside the house. Up the stairs, to the right.”

“My thanks.”

The interior felt smaller than it looked from outside. Monks sat reading at small tables. He passed them, quietly as to not disturb their work, and followed the gardener’s directions. Soon he found an aging Breton behind a desk.

“Pardon me. But, are you Jauffre?” Kyndoril asked.

“I am,” said the human. “What brings you to Weynon Priory?”

Kyndoril approached the desk. “The will of the Emperor,” he whispered. “I've been told to seek you and present you with this.”

It was subtle, but Kyndoril sensed _some_ change in the man's demeanor as he rummaged through his bag. His fingers closed around the diamond. Kyndoril withdrew the Amulet of Kings, covered in so many bread crumbs and grains of salt, and offered it.

“The amulet.... How did you get this, elf?”

“As I said, the Emperor entrusted me with it.” Kyndoril glanced at the desk. A recent copy of the Black Horse Courier was there. Well, if Jauffre already knew of his death.... “I was there in his final moments. He bade me to deliver this to you and... what was it? Close shut the jaws of Oblivion.”

“And how much do you know about the jaws of Oblivion?”

“I'm an _elf_. We elves _love_ to open those jaws.”

Jauffre was not impressed.

“Summerset has had its own share of daedric incursions,” said Kyndoril. “I've heard enough about the crimes of other lords to know that our enemy is Mehrunes Dagon.”

“'Other' lords. Who are you, exactly?”

“I'm... Kyndoril. Son of Estivel. High Kinlord of Luxurene,” he said. “Nice province you have here. Absolutely lovely.”

“Now there's a name I thought I'd never hear myself. I've read that your mother gave our forces quite a bit of trouble during the war with the Dominion. All is now forgiven, of course.”

He doubted it. “Of course.”

“But weren't you in jail?”

“How did you know that?”

“These things reach me.”

“The Emperor saw fit to let me escape and trust me with this mission. And if that isn't good enough for you, then may I instead be judged by.... Stars, that's right,” Kyndoril whispered. “His son. He said you knew of a fourth son.... Of course!”

Kyndoril began to pace the room. “It makes sense. He wanted his son to light the Dragonfires, didn’t he? That _would_ close shut the jaws of Oblivion.”

“I.... Of course I know that,” Jauffre grimaced. “Yes, the Emperor had a fourth son. I once served as the captain of the Blades. And one night, many years ago, Uriel brought me to his private chambers. He entrusted me with a newborn babe and told me to deliver him somewhere safe. He wouldn't explain, but I knew the boy was his son. Over the years, he would request news of him....”

Kyndoril stared at Jauffre, and felt an odd prickle of irritation. “And has anyone else been sent to ensure his safety?”

“No. Which is why you must find him immediately, before the enemy can.”

There were a dozen things he wanted to say to Jauffre, regarding duty, honor, and basic _sense_. But he refrained from that. “Who am I looking for?”

“You'll find him serving as a priest at the Chapel of Akatosh in Kvatch. His name is Martin.”

Kyndoril felt an odd blush creep up and turned his back so that Jauffre could not see him. Martin. That... halfway decent Imperial man. The son of Uriel? The heir of Talos himself?

“I'll leave immediately.”

“Tell the monks that you're in need of assistance on my business. They will gladly help you.”

–

Kyndoril's first request was a way to speed himself to Kvatch without actually having to traverse the highlands and forests for days on end. He did consider it, for the year was already well into Hearthfire, and taking the Imperial roads would only lead to him arriving in Kvatch mid-Frostfall like some Witches Festival daedra. A portal would be the best option.

Absolutely not, said everyone at Weynon Priory. Portals were dangerous magic, liable to sever part of the traveler or leave them stranded in Oblivion. With the Dragonfires out and the forces of Oblivion invading Nirn, leaving potential gates between the realms was the worst idea.

Kyndoril instead asked who would willingly open a portal to Kvatch if they would not.

“My child, nobody has successfully used a portal in nearly eight-hundred years,” said one Prior Maborel.

“Ah! But only in Sun's Height, a great mer of Auridon opened a portal before me, and I found myself in a count's private chambers.”

Prior Maborel did not appear to believe him. In fact, his disposition toward him suffered a visible loss. “In any case, the Empire has no need for such magic. Talos, long ago, ordered the halt of all upkeep of the ancient transitus shrines. And it was wise. During the Three Banners War, warring parties abused its magic. Waves of heathen forces swept throughout the heartland as they fought bitterly for the chance to defy the will of Akatosh.”

Kyndoril held back more words. If the idea of intruding in a count's room by Aldmeri means had irritated the man, then reminding him of the old Dominion's victory would not win him any more favor. Cyrods, he had been told, did love to forget the brief years of Aldmeri governance and aid that had followed.

“The highway is a gift of the Emperors that exists for Cyrodiil and all her people,” said Maborel. “Do consider it, if the wild woods of Colovia are too dangerous.”

“I see the wisdom in your words.” Kyndoril watched as a smile crossed the man's face. “Then what is the best way, Divines willing, for a mer to reach Kvatch in as little time as possible?”

“Well... the horses of Chorrol are swift and smart. Ask Eronor for my paint horse. She has seen everything from Chorrol to Bruma, does not flinch at the sight of wolves and imps, and will not lead you astray.”

“Remarkable. And what about the horse?”

“Just.... Just go. Talos guide you.”

Kyndoril thanked Maborel and saw himself out of the Weynon house. And he did speak to Eronor, the Dunmer he'd met earlier. But instead of demanding the horse, he suggested that he might borrow it later. If the monks were worried about his location, he was only visiting Chorrol to prepare for the journey to come.

Which was another lie. If, and only if the Chorrol chapter of the Mages Guild could not help him, he would return for that horse.

As he hurried for the city, he tried to drive away more sobering thoughts. Like the thought of Martin, performing his duties before Akatosh, only to be interrupted by the servants of Dagon.

Kyndoril walked faster and cursed himself for not at least taking the horse, if only to ride it to the gates of Chorrol.

–

Chorrol did seem to be a pleasant city. Thick, old oaks of the Great Forest still thrived within its walls, adding a touch of Y'ffre's – or perhaps Kynareths's – glory. It was a shame that he would have to leave within the day. Or the next day. It wouldn't be long before Magnus set, and the thought of bothering some innkeeper for dinner and a bed was starting to appeal to him. If there was no magical travel to be had, there was no sense passing up a night of rest.

Martin is in danger, you idiot, said a more responsible part of him. You lazy dog.

Which was of course why he sought the guild before anything else, and asked for its magister as soon as he caught the attention of one of the mages. He was directed upstairs, to an Argonian with many spines over his head and across his brow. And after expected courtesies, Kyndoril jumped to the point.

“Has anyone seen an Altmer called Estivel lately?”

“Why does it want to know?” asked Teekeeus.

“It's– I'm her son. There are urgent family matters, requiring her counsel.”

“I'm afraid you've missed her. She spends much of her time on the road, and has not visited our humble hall in weeks. But if you wish, I can arrange to have Estivel contacted...?”

For the first time since the Mer Maid, Kyndoril felt his heart leap with elation, relief. “Please do.”

“If you'd like to stay and wait, we may be able to find accommodations for you....”

“My thanks, but that won't be necessary. I'm afraid I must trouble you with another request, my friend.”

“How else can the guild assist?”

“I've been told that portals are a forgotten art in Cyrodiil, what with Talos frowning upon magical transport.”

“Ha. What priest told you that?” Teekeeus asked. “The Mages Guild has been granted special permission to use portals for travel. If we could not, how could we react quickly to necromancers and daedra? Besides, it is convenient.”

A prickle of irritation crept up on him. It would have been so easy to ask Skingrad's hall for a portal to Chorrol. Oh, had he _known_....

“Then I ask you, please send me to Kvatch.”

“Kvatch!” Teekeeus' spines went stiff. “We do not conduct business with the Kvatch Mages Guild!”

“It's not business. And I know I may not have allies there. I'm just in need of a quick method of travel, and my task is far more important than whatever grudge Kvatch bears for my house.”

“If... it insists.”

Teekeeus paused and focused. And a hole of white light simply appeared in the center of the room.

“I can't tell you how helpful this is,” Kyndoril said. “But I'm glad, for this and any news you can relay to Estivel.”

“Good luck, and stay moist.”

Kyndoril gathered his courage. Travel by portal in itself was not overly strange. It was like stepping through a door and coming out in the wrong place. But Sigrid. Sigrid would not be pleased to see him again, and Stendarr only knew if the Kvatch guard would recognize him.

He bowed in his thanks to Teekeeus and stepped into the portal.


	8. Flames of Oblivion

He felt the heat first. The breeze, as it lifted his hair. And as the smells of wood smoke and charred meat and unpleasant matter flooded his nostrils, he opened his eyes.

He did not recognize it. The scorched shell of a building, blackened timbers, cracked and broken stone. Something – someone burned beyond recognition on the remains of a floor. Kyndoril covered his mouth, and hoped that nothing had heard his muffled scream.

The clouds overhead were rough, bulging, swirling as if threatening a cyclone, and the skies... the skies were red.

He turned, hoping to see Teekeeus' portal. It was already gone.

Kyndoril swallowed, drew his sword, and began to walk through the rubble. And he stepped out into what remained of Kvatch. Not a single living person could be seen. Not that he’d linger in such a place either, he reminded himself.

The steeple of the chapel wasn't visible. Worry clutched him as he hurried in what he hoped was the right direction....

Something screeched. And he caught sight of leathery wings just before a little ball of fire hurtled his way. His ward came a second too late and he felt a searing pain in his middle, before he retaliated with his own flames. The imp shrieked and flew off. And as he walked, shaking, tending to his wound with a healing spell, he cast an eye around for anything worse.

And of course there was worse. Some creature, with the appearance of an enormous plucked bird with a long lizard tail prowled in front of a ruined house on the other end of the street. Kyndoril held his breath and darted across the way, as light and silent as he could. The clannfear did not turn around.

And in this way, sneaking past what he could and hurling fire at everything else, Kyndoril eventually returned to the chapel of Akatosh.

Kyndoril had half-hoped that he would find the doors barred. But no. They were easy to push open as ever. How had the daedra _not_ already breached the sanctuary of the temple?

He was met by a member of the city guard.

“You! You're... not a daedra. How did you get here?”

“Magic,” Kyndoril said, as he pushed the door shut again. Then he sheathed his sword and turned to look at the temple. Several more guards and a few of the townsfolk had gathered.... “Gods. Is this all that's left of–”

“Wait a minute. I know you. You're the Gray Fox's–”

“The Emperor himself pardoned me.” It was not exactly a lie, he told himself. “And I don't care if you believe that or not. I need to speak to Martin. At once.”

The guard hesitated. “Very well,” he sighed. “He's over by the altar.”

Just as he'd done weeks ago, Kyndoril made his way to the front. Akatosh, Man and Dragon, did not look upon the chapel, but to either side. And Martin stood beneath the window, his arms folded and head down.

Kyndoril wasn't sure how to greet the man. But, since Martin did not know he was the Emperor yet, and expected only so much of him....

“I'm back,” Kyndoril grinned, “you insufferable Alessian robe.”

Martin turned. But the tired smile on his face faded quickly. “That's twice you've arrived unexpected. But why now? Why do you come here, when the Divines have forsaken this city?”

“You.”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “Well....”

“I have crossed Cyrodiil, made my way back to Kvatch for the chance to speak to you again.”

“I'm... flattered, my friend.”

“I'm flattered that you would respond so to my flattery,” Kyndoril said. “But I am also here on urgent business.”

“Now I'm confused. Is this about the daedra? Did the guard send for help?”

“You're about to be more confused, I promise you.” Kyndoril glanced around the chapel. “I'd prefer to speak in private.”

“Very well. But we can't be long. I have a duty to these people. They're in mourning now. Mara only knows when one of them will seek me again.”

And he began walking back down the length of the chapel, toward the stairway that led to the monks' quarters.

And Kyndoril noticed that a few faces were missing, from both the chapel and the rooms below. “Where on Nirn is Weedum-Ja? Oleta? Primate Dralgoner?”

“They're... gone. Not dead, I hope. They have fled the city.”

Once they had the security of two doors between them at the rest of the chapel, Martin turned to him. “What is this about?”

Kyndoril wrung his hands and thought. In his haste to find Martin, he had not considered how exactly he would give the news to him. Was there some formality involved in naming the next Emperor? Did that matter when they were huddled in a besieged city?

“You... might want to sit down. There is no easy way to tell you this.”

And Martin did sit, on the side of his bed. “Kyndoril, there is little you can say that can make this worse.”

He swallowed, and hovered on the edge of further ruining Martin's day.

“Over a week ago,” Kyndoril began, “followers of Mehrunes Dagon struck and took the Emperor's life. He and three of his sons are dead now. But before he passed, he made a request of me. He... asked me... to find his last son. And that led me to you.”

“And... why would he want that?” If the disbelief spreading over Martin’s face was any indication, he had guessed.

“You are his last son. You are Martin Septim, Dragonborn, and rightful Emperor of Cyrodiil.”

“That's... not possible.”

Kyndoril should have said something reassuring or encouraging. However, he had exhausted his diplomatic willpower for the day, and aimed for what he hoped was humor. “Come now, the spares usually get handed to the clergy. It makes sense.”

“What? The cler– I am a farmer's son!”

Kyndoril shook his head, then seated himself on the stool by the desk. “Listen, Martin.... I know that it can be difficult to be a bastard child.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake, Kyn.”

“Everyone was convinced that my mother had laid with a mer who was not her husband. I look nothing like my own father. Mara's crotch, the mer wasn't even alive in the years before my dear sister was born.”

“I'm.... Well. I won't pry.”

“But here I am, High Kinlord of Luxurene, solely by virtue of being my mother's firstborn, and....” He thought of the little isle. The manor. The town. If Oblivion could strike here, then.... “Oh, ancestors forgive me.”

“Wait, you're nobility? _I'm_ nobility?”

“Yes! Stars, you are, if only because of this damned affair. And now Cyrodiil needs you.”

“Let's pretend I believe you,” Martin said, voice low. “How did you identify me as the Emperor's heir?”

“Have you ever met Father Jauffre? Of Weynon Priory?”

And Martin's face, suspicious and doubtful, finally started to soften again. “That would explain all those visits from him.”

“The Emperor never forgot you, Martin. Jauffre told me that he was asked to check on you. To deliver news of you.”

“Of course. And what am I to do, then?”

“You're the priest. I think you know that already. You must restore the Covenant of Akatosh. And I've been asked to find you and escort you to Weynon Priory, before the servants of Dagon find you.”

Martin shook his head. “The servants of Dagon are here, Kyn. Kvatch needs me. I cannot abandon this city.”

And perhaps that was only right. Though he did not like to wonder how long the siege might last. “Mara bless your compassionate heart. I won't drag you out of here. Stars know I need to find a bed soon myself.”

“And you'll find many free down here. If you will excuse me, I... have my duties to attend to.”

“Of course.”


	9. The Deadlands

Kyndoril did not find restful sleep that night. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw Kvatch in flames again, or the image of someone burnt or torn to pieces. His ears were too keen and every soft footstep made him jump awake for fear that some daedra had crept in. When day finally came, his head ached and he nearly cursed at the man who’d come to wake him.

Dire as Kvatch's situation was, the peril facing the rest of Tamriel demanded quick action. The guard had already given it their best, but the threat remained. And that is why, after a stale breakfast, Kyndoril walked out of the city and faced Oblivion itself.

The entire reason that Kvatch remained under siege was the Oblivion gate blocking the only way out of the city. A great archway with a fiery portal to the Deadlands, it released all sorts of daedra into Nirn. Specifically, the Kvatch part of Nirn.

A daedric keep waited on the other side of that gate. Towers of iron – or perhaps ebony – rose into a burning sky that should not have been. A jagged and chaotic landscape of rock and lava blocked his path.

He had nearly fled back through the gate when he realized how cowardly and foolish it would look. So, he turned to consider his situation again. Then drew his sword, reminded himself that he had not died underneath the Imperial City, and began to walk.

It had seemed at first that only imps and clannfear and the like had overrun the city, and what he met in the Deadlands mirrored that. But what Kyndoril soon spied ahead was another blow to his moment of boldness. It was, without a doubt, a dremora – tall, mortal-shaped, and armored head to toe. He should have expected that.

He again considered fleeing and leaving the dremora to wonder why a number of lesser daedra had dropped dead. Appearances be damned, there had to be people more suited to this.

But, would this not be his duty, if such disaster struck his own home? Of course, he would have had trained warriors at his back, if that had been the case. And he would have had the counsel of his battlereeve. Then again, his battlereeve probably would have insisted on going in without him, because he was not his mother, the esteemed battlemage and veteran.

No, in Tamriel he had only his courage, his damaged robe, his sword, and knowledge that his mother had shared long ago. Mehrunes Dagon was a dangerous foe, but he was not Molag Bal. All that tethered the Deadlands to Nirn was something called a sigil stone, something guarded, but delicate and easy to disrupt.

There was only one thing to do. And that was to creep past the dremora, with light and careful steps, while hoping Stendarr could hear his prayers for mercy even from a most unholy plane of Oblivion. Perhaps he did, for the dremora did not turn around, or even seem to be aware of him. Those who had come before had not had such luck. Every so often, Kyndoril spied a body, bloodied or mangled, guard's tunic barely discernible.

A handful of times, he was spotted by watchful daedric eyes. And he found himself forced to slay whatever strange creature that had found him. But he made he way to the door of one of the keep's towers, slipped inside, and closed it behind him.

In normal places, Kyndoril would have expected there to be a guard at the door. The Deadlands were anything but normal.

And that is how he was surprised by a tall, fully-armored dremora. A dremora who patiently waited for him to turn back around before brandishing a heavy ebony mace and roaring, “Bow to me!”

This. This was how he was going to die.

There wasn't much time to think. And Kyndoril was not sure why he made the decision he did. But instead of fleeing, or raising steel, or crying, he pressed a hand to his breast and bowed. “Fivefold venerations, mighty kyn.”

The dremora faltered. And Kyndoril straightened up, knowing that he only had one chance at making this unexpected moment work for him.

“May I pass? I won't be here long.”

“What business does a mortal have in my master's realm?” asked the dremora, quieter now.

“Well.... While I suppose that such things are insignificant to Lord Dagon, my business is... more of a request, of great value to me,” Kyndoril said. “You see, this particular area of his realm just happens to be connected, via gate, to a mortal city on Nirn. I've just been to that city, and I must say that the devastation is incredible.”

“That is nothing compared to what awaits the rest of Nirn!”

Oh, diplomacy. With a dremora. Only the courts of Summerset could have prepared him for this. “I believe you. Few Princes leave their marks upon the world like Mehrunes Dagon. The city of Kvatch now knows this. In fact, there are nearly none left in Kvatch to remember it. Which brings me to my business.”

“Speak, little mortal!”

“I ask that the gate be closed, for the sake of the survivors, who will remember and would warn others to heed the might of Lord Dagon. Besides, I don’t think there is much left to be destroyed.”

The dremora was still, as if considering. But after a moment, they spoke again. “And what do you offer in return?”

Kyndoril was stumped. He had been expecting the dremora to stop him at any time and try to crush his skull, not listen and give genuine consideration. He had not come prepared to bargain.

“Is there anything a mortal can offer, that is truly worthy of Lord Dagon?”

“I could make an offering of your _blood_.”

“Does the blood of countless mortals who perished in Kvatch satisfy your master?”

“Is the gate closed?”

The answer to both questions was probably no. “I see. Then we are at an impasse....”

“I grow impatient, mortal.” And to emphasize their point, the dremora flexed the arm holding the mace again.

“Well, I won't take any more of your time. May I pass?”

“No.”

But Kyndoril had already found the exits, on the other side of the room, with his eyes. “You are a fine gatekeeper, mighty kyn. I wonder what else you excel at?”

And before the dremora could answer, Kyndoril took off running like an Eton Nir hare. And as he sprinted up the stairs and searched frantically for some place to hide, he knew that the dremora would of course hear where he ran, if close enough, even if they lost sight of him.

He felt something burn in the back of his mind. There was a spell. There had to be a spell for a moment like this.

Of course! And he could almost feel the ancestors smiling upon him, lending raw magicka from Aetherius. Footsteps could be muffled! And his footfalls grew silent even on the hard floors of the tower.

Something moved ahead, in the room at the landing. A small daedra. He couldn't have that alerting the dremora. A quick firebolt felled it. Kyndoril ducked into the room and found an alcove, just out of sight of the stairs behind him. There, he waited and prayed.

The dremora ascended and passed him, cruel, sharp mace still gripped in one hand. They spied the dead scamp on the floor. And then they stepped over the scamp, as if assuming that he had gone that way. The dremora's back disappeared up the stairs.

Kyndoril knew he didn't have long before they returned, this time from a vantage point that would expose him. So he crept out of his hiding place, thinking to pick a spot where he would not be seen by chance.

There was another door. Better to have that between him and the dremora than be caught cowering against the wall. He opened it quickly, hoping for silence, and saw....

Oh, gods, he was already very high above the hot, solid ground of the Deadlands. All that was between him and certain death was a narrow walkway.

He remembered the dremora and closed the door, then sat down against it to consider.

On one hand, there was certainly a strong source of magicka in the tower across that bridge. On the other hand, he didn't want to die. Back to the first hand, there was still a dremora somewhere behind him, still searching, and it was better to continue moving than to wait like a scared rabbit. Besides... that magical source could only be one of the sigil stones his mother had spoken of, and if he just dealt with that, he would be free.

The air was still, at least. He wouldn't be knocked off by any wind. Kyndoril stood again and tried to imagine what Mother would say at a time like this. He could already hear her.

Listen, kid, she would probably say. When I was your age, I spent days riding half-naked on a guar through the ash wastes of Morrowind, leaping across streams of lava straight from the infernal fundament of Lorkhan himself. Did I get burned? Yes. Would I do it again? Hell yes.

Kyndoril crossed the bridge and prepared his mind to greet whatever awaited him.

The door opened to another winding staircase, one that was clear of daedra, thank the heavens. But as he climbed, he discovered that the way was clear only because its ward was already dead. And underneath the body were the trim and mail of another Kvatch guard. Kyndoril trembled as he nudged an arm aside and found a very bloodless Bosmeri face staring back, unseeing....

“Stars. Y'ffre, let this poor brave soul return to Aetherius, if your reach is as great here as it is on Nirn….”

There was nothing more to do for the mer. Fearful and grudging, he continued on his way. He encountered no more dremora, and reached the top, only to find _no_ apparent source of magic. Instead, there was a bizarre, cylindrical cage of iron bars, with an odd sharpened end here or there. And inside was another human, pale and short as so many of them were. But he was alive!

And... he had been stripped of all his clothing. Every scrap of it.

“Thank the gods, someone else still lives,” Kyndoril said, stepping closer to the cage. He began searching for a door, a lock, anything.... “Why are you in there? Are you harmed? Do you need any–”

“Don't worry about me! There's no time!” He was, at least, well and whole enough to shout.

“Calm yourself. I have enough time to see to a trapped man.”

“You must get to the top of the tallest tower! The sigil stone is holding the gate open! If you remove it, the gate will close!”

“I'm aware of that.”

“Then stop wasting time, elf! Go!”

Kyndoril stopped searching for a lock to meet the man's eyes. “You are speaking to a high kinlord of the Summerset Isles, the only human I am required to answer to is _dead,_ and I've had enough of this selfish _human_ martyrdom. Now cease this pitiful display of honor and–”

The man flinched and covered himself.

Seeing no obvious door on the cage, Kyndoril released a spell over the metal, hoping that some hidden lock would come undone and let the bars swing open. But nothing happened. “How did you even get in there?” He stepped back to inspect it again. “Hang on? There aren't any bars on top. Do they not expect you to climb?”

“Climb? I....” The man looked up. “Gods! I never thought of that!”

Kyndoril averted his gaze as the human began scaling the side of the cage. After a moment, he had pulled himself over the top and made his way back down without a scratch.

“Did you see where those fiends took your clothes, by chance?”

“They should be here somewhere.... Along with... aha! My sword!”

Kyndoril inspected the ceiling and noted that the daedric fondness for rough edges and spikes was not limited to the floor and walls. “Are you of the Kvatch guard, then?”

“Yes. But what do you know about Kvatch?”

“Much of the city fled, the rest of the survivors are hiding in the chapel of Akatosh, and the guards are still trying to defend everyone. I've been sent to close the gate.”

“Then go now! Please!”

“And you?”

“I'm....” The human hesitated. “I'm going back to Nirn to join the defense.”

“Good. Stendarr watch over you.”

–

Kyndoril made his way back down, across the bridge, and back to the central tower. All while lamenting that his sense of magicka had been so inaccurate. But, for his mistake, another mortal soul would escape Oblivion, Aedra willing.

As he continued his ascent, he found a door shut and locked. “No,” he grumbled, calling upon his magic. “We are not doing _that_ again.”

The door opened to a new unsettling sight. The floors were... red. With streaks of white. And they were a little soft. As if.... Meat. They might have been made out of raw _meat_.

Yes, the magicka source was somewhere above. And, Kyndoril knew, it would not be unguarded. He was right. Another armored dremora faced him.

“I don't suppose you're in the mood to talk?”

The dremora gave a battle cry that had something to do with blood, and he found himself in danger of a spiked mace again.

Kyndoril was not sure what moved him. But he dodged out of the way and drew his sword. And when the dremora turned and made another attempt....

The mace went sailing, dangerously close to his head. And the dremora clutched their damaged wrist.

“Are we done here?” Kyndoril asked. “I'll accept your surrender now.”

The dremora answered with a sharp kick to the middle. He fell, eyes watering, and saw the dremora retrieve the mace with their good hand....

Kyndoril gripped his sword and tried to get up. He managed to make it to one knee, panic rising, as he fought his body's urge to simply give up and lie still until he could breathe properly again. And as the dremora advanced and raised the mace for a crushing strike, he lunged.

He backed out of the way as the dremora staggered and fell, run through with steel. And he watched, amazed but horror-struck, as the dremora tried to rise, gripped the hilt in one hand, and wrenched the sword out. Vivid blue blood spilled between fingers that tried to stop the wound. And the dremora collapsed. A puddle grew beneath them and they did not move again.

“Mara's heart....”

And pain burned where the sharp armor had cut him. He began healing himself immediately.

His heart raced, his gut twisted. There was no point in feeling _pity_ for someone who would have crushed his head. And yet....

Auri-El, he thought, take this fiend's soul if you can. Let them be born anew.

That was all that needed to be said. Kyndoril tried to convince himself of that as he tugged the sword away from the dremora's hand and left the body behind.

The small daedra were easier to kill.

But he had one more encounter with a kyn. One guarding a large, round, black stone that hovered above some font at the height of the tower.

“Halt, worm!”

“Stand aside,” Kyndoril raised his sword, and felt his voice shake. “Let me remove that accursed rock. And I'll spare you.”

This dremora was robed, but prepared for him. Kyndoril felt his strength vanish as he advanced. Swinging a blade had become a great effort. But he was able to approach, get his sword close enough to force the daedra away. They drew a dagger.

There was only one chance. With the last of his strength, he turned toward the font and raised his sword over his head. And he brought it down pommel-first into the sigil stone.


	10. A King's Regrets

He was lying facedown on dirt. Cold, normal dirt. The sweet, blessed dirt of Y'ffre and Nirn.

And men were shouting. Something about the gate. Something about a body. He tried to think of something to say. Then a hand shook his shoulder and pain tore through him.

“Aaagh!”

“He's alive! Thank Talos, he's alive!”

Kyndoril winced and held back more shouts as the men rolled him onto his back, and more gasps followed.

“I don't believe it. It's that elf! From Anvil!”

Even on the verge of consciousness, Kyndoril knew that whatever they were thinking was not in his interests. “No...,” he protested. “From... Luxurene....”

They would understand, he thought. They would have to understand.... If not, Martin would tell them... Martin would....

–

Clarity of the mind returned. Kyndoril opened his eyes to discover that he had been tucked into a bed. He recognized the room – lesser monks, beggars, and he had stayed there before Oblivion broke loose. Now the other beds were filled by bandaged men, their guard effects folded and stowed nearby.

Kyndoril looked at his own body. His middle was bound in linen and so were his hands. His left shoulder made itself known again through dull aches.

“Oleta! He's awake!”

Kyndoril jumped, but felt relief set in as he saw Weedum-Ja hurry over, still _clearly alive_.

“Oh, thank Stendarr,” he sighed. “You've both made it....”

He looked around Weedum-Ja and saw the healer, inspecting whatever was under the bandages of one of the humans. Her face, soft in his memories of Kvatch, was stiff and stoic now in her work.

“We did,” said Oleta. “Take it easy. I healed most of your wounds, but you lost a lot of blood.”

“I....” Kyndoril bit his lip, and remembered. Something had exhausted him before he left the Deadlands. A spell? A blade? Both? “Thank you. Both of you.”

Weedum-Ja patted him on his aching shoulder and pressed a cup of water into his hands. “You're much too dry. Drink this before you die on us. Slowly, please.”

“Where's Martin?” Kyndoril asked, before taking the first sip. Water. The blessed water of Y'ffre....

“Slowly!” Weedum-Ja repeated. “Don't make yourself sick. Martin is upstairs, seeing to the rest of survivors.”

“I need to see him.”

Neither Weedum-Ja nor Oleta were happy with this. But after another round of healing spells (his shoulder had been stabbed and the half-healed cuts on his belly had started to open up, they told him), they gave him some potions and a waterskin and let him go. Kyndoril pulled his tattered robe back over his head, collected his bag, said his thanks again, and left.

It was much easier than walking under a curse, he noted. But it was not without its difficulties. And so Kyndoril found that he was much more comfortable sitting down when he finally got back to Martin in the chapel above.

The future Emperor frowned at him. “What on Nirn? Did they really say you could leave?”

“I was concerned for your well-being, Mar–”

Martin scoffed. “Oh, for shame, Kyn. Listen to the healer next time.”

“I'm starting to wish I had.” Kyndoril leaned back against the altar. “How long was I out?”

“It's been a day since the gate closed. The guards found you just before you passed out.”

“They know I'm.... They recognized me, for what happened in Anvil,” Kyndoril whispered.

“They've already spoken to the Primate about it, and agreed to overlook that for your deeds here. The rest of Cyrodiil _might_ want more than an Oblivion gate shut before they forgive you. Inconvenient, I know.”

“Dralgoner? And... they haven't reported to.... What about the count?”

The smile left Martin's face. “Dead. The guard regrouped and stormed Castle Kvatch after they carried you to us. They found him dead in his chambers.”

“And... what becomes of Kvatch now?” Kyndoril asked.

“The people will salvage what they can. And most plan to move on. There's been talk of Skingrad and Anvil,” said Martin. “But even those who plan to leave fear that no city is safe from Oblivion. I can't say I'm confident either.”

Kyndoril lowered his voice. “Well, you'll need confidence soon, my liege....”

“Stop that at once, Kinlord.”

“As you wish. But we must return to Weynon Priory, and soon.”

“Oh, not before morning,” Martin said. “I'm too damned tired for the journey and... by the Nine, have you even eaten since you woke?”

Kyndoril did not answer. And Martin hissed something about Akatosh's backside, walked away, and returned a minute later with a plate of food for him.

–

Sleep came easily that night. But it was not entirely peaceful. Kyndoril found himself back in the Deadlands, where the rivers ran with fire and bleeding dremora demanded revenge for his kill.

He awoke with a jolt that startled Martin. But Martin assured him that the temple and city were safe. And he tried to shut his eyes again.

Kyndoril was in a realm where the earth itself was dark as the night sky and the waters were too bright. A dremora, naked and gray, tried to rise from the water. A light of all colors washed over him and he disappeared.

Somewhere, in some twisted, thorned fortress, someone screamed for Meridia, and went unheard.

The Planemeld was nigh....

Martin nudged him awake again.

“Vaermina, begone from this elf,” Martin yawned. “I'd suggest turning your mind toward your Auri-El, Kyn. For whatever comfort he provides to elves.”

“Same as your Akatosh,” Kyndoril whispered. “The hand of Auri-El is always on our shoulder, guiding us through life, protecting us from harm....”

What did the hand of Auri-El even look like? Could a Dragon have hands? Did Auri-El's diminished form of the Dawn have hands? Who was to say Auri-El needed hands at all? He must have... to hold the mighty Bow and Shield....

He was in a realm of mountains and gold fields. It might have been night. No moons or sun lit the land. The light seemed to come instead from some gaping wound in the sky and the glow of the three guardian constellations.

Warriors, foul Atmoran warriors of the disturbing history of Skyrim, came fleeing from across a whalebone bridge.

The Fox pursued them, bloody teeth bared in murderous fury, driving them toward the maw of...

The Dragon, brilliant gold against the icy darkness of the realm. But he shrieked as a startled bird might and fled in a whirl of feathers.

“Auri-El! Come back!”

The Dragon heard his cry and returned for him. And Kyndoril found himself wrapped in golden coils, safe from the approaching onslaught....

He woke, peaceful and contented, though he could not remember why. But he had to disentangle himself from the sleeping Martin's arms.

–

Martin, as it turned out, had put much more thought into their journey than Kyndoril. After a quick meal, Kyndoril found the man outfitting him with new supplies.

“This is quicksilver mail,” Martin said. “It's like wearing a mage armor you don't have to cast, or so I've heard. But Stendarr help you if the force is bone-shattering.”

Kyndoril unfolded the long coat, and gazed upon the unmistakable shine of _Aldmeri_ metal. “Mithril? Where did the church get elven armor?”

“You know the history of the Alessians, and you need to ask?”

“Oh, if only you knew of its true importance in Aldmeri metalwork. But the ancestors would skin me alive if I dared to tell.”

“I hope you can stand wearing a perverted coat of it. This, you see, was forged by human hands, for pilgrims and all who would raise arms on behalf of the Nine. But we can say Eight, if you prefer.”

Kyndoril began fastening the armor over his new clothes. “Ten.”

“What?”

“Ten. We Altmer have our own hero-gods.”

Martin rolled his eyes and handed him something soft and white. “This is an ancestor silk robe, normally reserved for the clergy.”

“Well, if I'm to continue playing the priest....”

Next came a sword in a humble leather sheath. But Kyndoril saw its quality the second Martin drew a few inches of the blade.

“A silver sword,” Martin explained. “Perfect for daedra and the undead. And of course it works on mortals too. But let's hope it doesn't come to that.”

“Thank you. These are fine gifts,” Kyndoril said, taking the new sword. There was no sense in a first polite refusal. These things were practical and necessary, and an Imperial man versed only in Imperial custom would not understand. Still, one question seemed prudent. “And... Primate Dralgoner doesn't mind that you raided the crusaders' armory, I trust?”

Martin pulled the neck of his robe down to reveal the armor he'd taken for himself. “Primate Dralgoner will have to make an exception for the Emperor and his ally. In any case, I doubt he'd say no to the Hero of Kvatch.”

“The what of what, my lord?”

“You'll hear it soon enough.”

And they did, once they ascended into the chapel itself. But it came in whispers and excited hisses as he passed by the city's refugees. And he felt the stares of so many sets of eyes as Martin bade farewell to the rest of the clergy.

At last, they stepped out into the warm Hearthfire light. And Kyndoril found the blue sky and sunbeams surreal in the charred city and its lingering smells of sulfur and ash.

“Remind me of your plan,” Martin asked.

“It's simple,” Kyndoril reminded him. “We walk to Skingrad. Find the Mages Guild. They'll make us a portal to Chorrol, and the rest of the journey to Weynon will be short.”

But as they left the city gates, a shimmering line of red and gray on the Gold Road caught his attention. And fear began to bubble again. He glanced around, saw the cluster of horses that had survived the assault on Kvatch, and their Khajiiti handler.

The stablemaster's lips curled. “What is it thinking...?”

Kyndoril took the reins of a dun. “I'll bring this back. I'm sorry.”

And ignoring Martin's questions, he hauled himself into the saddle and urged the horse on. They sped along the winding road. And halfway down the hill, his suspicions were confirmed. The Imperial Legion had arrived, and a general and a few men had broken off to speak to the captain of the Kvatch guard.

Kyndoril drew himself up in the saddle as he approached. And he exerted his magical presence as only a lord of the Altmer could. The Imperials looked up, their eyes betraying their alarm.

He tried to keep his face serene, as expected. “Pardon the intrusion, general. I planned to travel to Skingrad today. However, it concerns me that the Imperial Legion is making haste eastward on the Gold Road....”

He glanced at their banner, emblazoned with the silhouette of a welwa, and found it familiar....

Kyndoril dropped all false charm from his voice. “When your protectorate is northern Summerset.”

The general's face went pink. “I see. You're... Estivel's–”

“You will explain. Now.”

“You've already seen what the daedra are doing to Cyrodiil, Kinlord! We're already getting reports of this from Valenwood, Elsweyr. Oblivion gates lie on our borders. Even the seas–”

“Then you've abandoned Summerset. I suppose your comrades from Alinor and Dusk will arrive soon? And then your navy will withdraw from Firsthold and Vulkhel Guard?”

“You do not command the Legion, Kinlord,” warned the general.

“No. But I see now what little gratitude remains for the Aldmeri shield against the Planemeld. And I see the true quality of the Empire's Stendarr.”

“Your words are treason!”

The guard captain spoke up. “Let it go, general. He's just come out of Oblivion and he's still rattled.”

Kyndoril bit the inside of his cheek as the general turned his eyes on him again.

“You have the Empire's sympathies, Kinlord. But our orders are our business.” And then the general turned back to the captain. “We won't bleed a burned city dry. Tell your survivors that relief will follow from Skingrad. Talos watch over you all.”

And with that, the general and his bodyguards turned and rejoined the line of red and gray on the Gold Road.

Kyndoril heard a throat clear beside him. Martin had arrived on the back of a Colovian roan.

“How much did you hear?” Kyndoril sighed.

Martin shook his head. “The Mages Guild has chapters in every county, correct?”

Kyndoril nodded, and cursed that his eyes burned and watered.

“Then we make for Anvil.”

“But.... We're needed at....”

“ _I_ am needed at Weynon Priory,” Martin reminded him. “You have been a good friend. And ally. I am glad for your company.”

The captain of the guard coughed and began walking back up the road toward the city.

Kyndoril steadied his breath. “And it is my duty to escort you now. I would see your father's request fulfilled.”

“You delivered the Amulet of Kings to safekeeping,” said Martin. “And you've found me. That is all that was asked of you. Now, as your Emperor, I will give you a choice. Follow me, or return to your isle and rally whatever arms you can against Oblivion. You have a duty where the Empire has failed you, Kinlord. I would not drag a count from his city to follow me across Cyrodiil. And I will not force you either way.”

Kyndoril thought of his island. The town. Cyrodwen.

“You're... right.”

“The Mages Guild will see me to safety. And the harbor will see you to Summerset. Until then, how far is Anvil?”

“A few days, by horse,” Kyndoril croaked.

“Then we have a few more nights to cherish. Come along.”


	11. Shadow of the Second Era

There was little to talk about on the road. Halfway into their first day, Kyndoril remembered that the stablemaster had not actually allowed him to take her horse. In fact, he had promised to return it. But Martin told him not to fear. He had explained their situation and asked her to go to Primate Dralgoner if she needed payment. She had allowed this, as she was feeling charitable, and sometimes need outweighed the promise of coin. She would, of course, pester the Primate if the need for coin arose.

At some point on their second day of travel, they saw a dreadful arch a way off the road. This Oblivion gate, like the last, was full of flame and somehow turned the skies _red_ as they passed, even at their distance.

There was little need to approach, thank the Aedra. The Legion had pitched rows of tents near it and set up defenses.

Martin reminded Kyndoril that it would all be for naught if they lingered to be caught by Dagon's thralls. So they continued along the highway, with Martin reciting prayers of protection to the Divines.

Eventually the scent of the Abecean grew heavy on the air, and they came to the great white walls of Anvil. They left the horses with the stable. And Kyndoril caught a glimpse of a certain white horse. A horse who was preoccupied with a clump of grass. Well, at least one thing had been set right.

It was strange to return in the afternoon, through the main gate, when he had once fled along the shore at night. And Kyndoril began to dread that even after everything that had happened, the Anvil guard would remember him. Kvatch did, after all....

But Martin was ready for the guards when they stepped between them.

“Sirs, do you have some quarrel with this monk?” he asked.

“Sorry, but he does look like a wanted elf....”

“Then you must have him confused with someone else. This elf has been in the service of the Nine since he was old enough to hold a broom.”

The guards seemed to doubt this. But they parted and allowed him to pass without more trouble.

Out of danger, and finally in the city walls, Kyndoril realized that he had not actually had the chance to appreciate Anvil yet. And the stonework and the vibrant paint and tiles put the grays and browns of the rest of Colovia to shame.

Of course, Anvil's history was a little different from the rest of Colovia. From what Kyndoril had heard, there had once been nothing more than a sad seaside village there. Thras, Valenwood, and Summerset had supposedly plagued the coast with raids and attempts at conquest. But then Redguard sailors had arrived, with wealth and the promise of trade and protection. And so Anvil, the gateway to the Abecean, had been built up into a greater city.

And the guild hall they sought had been established at some point in the early Second Era. It was startlingly easy to find; Kyndoril had been admiring a large glass dome atop one of the buildings and, when looking for a sign to identify it, found the familiar eye emblem.

“I think this is it,” Kyndoril said, approaching the door.

“So it is. And you think they can open the way to Chorrol?”

“If they can't we have another week or two on the road.”

“And if not?” Martin asked him. “Have you made your decision yet?”

Kyndoril did not have to think for long. However important the man next to him was, whatever happy moments they had shared, there was no sense in continuing. Soon, he imagined, Martin would have the Blades to see him through his duties. Luxurene, on the other hand, needed the guidance of its lord. Even if he was not the wise, traveled, experienced kinlord he'd hoped to return as.

“You're right,” he whispered. “I can't go with you. But at least go knowing that you are, without a doubt, the least horrible Septim that Tamriel has known.”

Martin grinned. “High praise, for a blaspheming traitor. I'll try to remember it when you get caught and dragged back to the Imperial City in chains.”

Kyndoril thought of a terrible retort. Then he decided that it would be best not to say it. But urge won over sense. “Wouldn't _you_ like that?”

“What, and destroy my family's image?”

“Tiber Septim.”

Martin shook his head. “Truth be told, I will not forget your selflessness, or your friendship. Now, let's not prolong this.”

Inside the guild hall, Martin did most of the talking. He sought the magister, an Altmeri woman called Carahil. Carahil seemed troubled, when Martin first asked for help with 'travel'. But when he clarified that he only wanted a portal, she obliged.

“Well, you'll meet an Argonian called Teekeeus in a few minutes,” Kyndoril said. “Thank him for me, will you? And... good luck.”

Martin squeezed his shoulder. “Thank you, Kyndoril. And... may the hand of Auri-El guide you and protect you from harm.”

“Akatosh be with you.”

And, with one last smile, they parted ways. Martin stepped through the portal, and it fell closed behind him.

Kyndoril had scarcely had the time to gather his thoughts, to plan his next steps, when Carahil spoke.

“Kyndoril, was it? I thought you looked familiar.”

“I... don't think we've been introduced, magister.”

“Ah, of course. But you are the son of High Kinlady Estivel, are you not?”

“You've met?”

“Well, I haven't had the pleasure of her company in some time,” said Carahil. “But an illusionist must have a good memory for detail. She has mentioned you before, and you have her eyes. As for the rest... well, I cannot say.”

“Nor I. If only I knew.”

Carahil gave the sort of small, knowing Altmeri smile that meant she knew something but would be ashamed to speak. “If only, indeed! Now... were you just here to see off your friend, or is there something else I can assist you with?”

Kyndoril thought. And the idea seemed absurd, but.... “My knowledge of magic is sorely lacking, and while I don't doubt your skill, I wonder if it is not too much to ask of you.”

“I cannot say unless you ask.”

“Could one open a portal from here to the Summerset Isles?”

“Ah, my dear kinlord. If I could, then I would spend all my holidays in Lillandril. A disappointment, I know. If we once invaded Coldharbour, then what is to stop us from hopping across the sea?”

Kyndoril remembered what Prior Maborel had told him, of the Talos and the decline of magical transport. “Tiber Septim, or so I've heard?”

“Oh, the stories your honored mother could tell you,” said Carahil. “Is there anything else you require?”

Something did come to mind. Namely, her assistance if he wound up in the dungeons again. “I must depart. But if something does arise, Stendarr forbid it, I might ask for your help again.”

–

“What do you _mean_ you won't sail?”

Jode's Tear was a merchant vessel from Elsweyr. It was crewed by a number of Khajiit and Argonians, and a handful of mer. And the captain, a very lion-like Suthay woman with braids in her thick mane, bared her teeth at him.

“It doesn't like it? This one doesn't like it either and her claws are cut.”

Kyndoril regretted his words. “Please, I apologize for my outburst, but.... Will you not reconsider? I have little gold to pay now, but I would gladly–”

“It is not a matter of gold,” said the captain. “If it were up to her, she would let the wanted elf criminal sleep in the hold–”

“I beg your pardon?”

“– and take him back to Summerset, where the law makes more sense. But she is not even allowed to leave the harbor. It is the order of the harbormaster, and the Empire. This one cannot defy it.”

Kyndoril turned to look at the other vessels docked in Anvil.

“Ah, she sympathizes,” said the captain. “But all those other ships? They will not take you. They will not take anyone. She is very sorry.”

“Has the Empire said why?” Kyndoril asked.

“They are afraid of daedra at sea.... And... they do not have any trust for Summerset or Valenwood. It is their old fear, of the Dominion, of elves.”

That was simply absurd. “But the Dominion is _done_ ,” Kyndoril protested. “We haven't even been a _thing_ for centuries.”

“She knows, she knows.... Come back later. Maybe the Empire will have pulled the stick out of its ass by then.”

And that meant negotiations had come to their end. Kyndoril left, disheartened, but unwilling to believe.

He tried a sturdy ship with a dragon prow from Skyrim. But the Nords, stripped down to their small clothes and grumbling about the heat, did not have a different answer for him.

There were visitors from Black Marsh. Their feathers and spines went stiff as they told him the same thing.

He sought the harbormaster himself. And to his growing despair, it had not all been some elaborate prank. Most travel, especially travel to former Dominion lands, was expressly forbidden.

Kyndoril tried to judge how much time had passed since Martin had left. There might still be a window to catch up, to....

No. He was a high kinlord, for gods' sakes. It was not his place to submit to circumstance so easily. Not when his subjects depended on him.

And, until he did return... this was why he'd made sure the isle had food and steel. Nobody would starve. The guard would be well-equipped. If Oblivion did reach the shores of Summerset, his own little isle would be safe.

One uncertainty remained – where to find food and shelter while he thought of a new solution.


	12. Sir Rhylus

The Chapel of Dibella had been abandoned. Blood stained an overturned pew. And, most unsettling of all, were the glowing red runes around the altar.

If he had been wiser, he would have turned and fled and found a better place to hide. However, the blood had dried a while ago, the city was still full of guards that knew his face, and the runes were enticing. The reckless sense of curiosity common to young fools won.

Kyndoril circled the altar. The writing was Ayleidoon script, in plain Ayleid language. Not at all a challenge for one educated in the language and custom of the heartland mer.

“As oiobala Umarile Ehlnada racuvar,” Kyndoril muttered. “Umaril.... Where have I heard your name before?”

Memories of his history lessons caught up with him. Umaril, as he remembered, was not the famed Last King of the Ayleids. That title belonged to a long-deceased mer called Laloriaran Dynar. But Umaril had been the last Ayleid king to sit upon the Ruby Throne, before he was murdered by....

An image came, unbidden. A ghostly-white figure, with dark eyes and a blade born of Lorkhan's will.

Kyndoril shook his head and descended into the chapel living quarters to see if anyone still dwelt there. And when he found nobody, living or dead, he prayed for forgiveness and rummaged through their stores of food and drink. And there was no sense in letting a perfectly comfortable bed go to waste, when he needed it....

–

Reality once again unmade itself, in his mind. The world had given way to endless white. Before him loomed a mighty figure, perhaps two heads taller, armored in ancient elven scale and plate and a helm with some resemblance to the head of a dragon.

And Kyndoril knew, from what he had discovered earlier and the heavy magicka surrounding him, exactly what had called upon him.

Such a figure demanded deepest respect. Kyndoril knelt and greeted the mer before him as the king he was. “Sunnabe ni, Umaril adonai.”

Umaril would speak only in the haughty dialect of an Ayleid. And Kyndoril thought it best not to challenge him, but to continue in a more humble form of Aldmeris. What Umaril told him, and how he replied, would remain in his mind for centuries to come.

“Who are you, to speak as if you know me?”

“A lesser lord, to be truthful,” Kyndoril told him. “I serve the High King of Alinor. Thousands of years have passed since Cyrodiil's fall, but we have not forgotten you. Your presence is an unexpected honor.”

“You choose a strange bed tonight. Why sleep in the home of false mortal gods, where I have made my fury clear?”

“Your fury, great Umaril? I do not understand.”

“The Aedra have betrayed us to Man,” said Umaril. And Kyndoril felt the light of the room grow brighter. “They blessed Pelinal, the usurper, with their might, and he led them against me. Even now they seek to undo you and all Aldmer who remain.”

Kyndoril raised his head to look at Umaril, and thought on this. And then he said exactly what he had just told himself not to say. “Lordly Umaril.... That sounds like a lot of horseshit.”

“You dare–”

“Auri-El himself begged Anui-El for our salvation when Man first encroached upon Tamriel. He defended us, even in his weakened state. Whatever lies Pelinal told you, whatever blasphemy has been spread by the Empires of Man, _why_ would the Aedra simply hand a champion of Lorkhan the means to slay you?”

“Begone!”

A blade came for his neck.

And Kyndoril awoke, gasping and sweating, clutching at his throat. But he did not bleed. His head was still attached.

–

_Altmer,_

_You must be stupid or desperate to sleep down here. Find me in the catacombs, if you haven't been murdered by dawn._

_a perfectly trustworthy person – really_

He found this note waiting under his hand, as he stirred from sleep.

Kyndoril read it again and considered setting it on fire. What held him back was the writer’s candor and apparent humor. And the room still held the eerie sort of chill that comes with the anger of lingering, malevolent spirits. So, using a nice square of cloth as a makeshift sack, he gathered breakfast – extra for his guest – and made his way to the chapel undercroft.

The catacombs were dark, as expected. But there was a decent golden glow off to one side, one that led him to a narrow corridor, that opened again into some private tomb illuminated by hovering magic lights. A white-haired mer in leather armor sat there, bent over a small collection of books.

The mer lifted his head to look at him, revealing a gray face, red eyes, and many scars and wrinkles.

“Oh, by Azura.... Are you as gullible as you are stupid?”

“Probably,” said Kyndoril. And without being invited, he sat and offered the other mer some of the drying bread he'd scavenged upstairs. The Dunmer took it.

“No weapons? No demands that I spill my secrets? No questions about my intentions or loyalties?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be polite. We’ve only just met.”

The Dunmer bit a chunk out of his bread. “Confident, are you? Fine. That, I can work with. My problem is two-fold.”

He slid one of his open books across the floor. On the right page was an image of a tall, broad figure. Someone in intimidating spiked armor of daedric fashion opposed a small human of more modest build and virtuous arms. Kyndoril had to read the other page to understand that this was some Cyrod artist's take on the battle between the Pelinal and High King Umaril.

“I saw him in my sleep last night,” Kyndoril told him. “He tolerated me, until I challenged his words. But why would you investigate him?”

“I never cared, until he made himself known. You see, Umaril has become a nuisance for my lady.”

Kyndoril was left to guess. “Azura?”

“Nice try, but no.”

“Almalexia?” Judging from how the Dunmer flinched, he'd guessed wrong. “Countess Umbranox?”

“Meridia. She and I have an arrangement. I work for her sometimes, I get to have a nice long life. It's one of her favorite pacts to make with mortals. And some of the Ayleids loved her.”

“Like Laloriaran Dynar.”

“Wait, how do you know that?”

Kyndoril shrugged. “My mother fought against the Planemeld. She followed Vanus Galerion into Coldharbour and saw the old king with her own eyes before he died.”

“Ah. Well, you won't be surprised to know that Umaril also made a pact.”

“No. But I thought Meridia chose her champions more wisely. Or that she would stop what happened upstairs.”

The Dunmer shook his head. “Meridia is many things. But she, like the rest of the good daedra, is not some watchful mother. She concerns herself with that which befouls the laws of Nirn. She hates undeath, for it defies the order of life. She despises Molag Bal, for he and his servants violate the nature of death and create undeath. But she didn't stop Umaril. No, she left this mess for me to discover. And I cannot simply turn away from a clear misuse of her power. So, it's distracting me from the rest of my work.”

“And you're hoping that I can tell you something about Umaril?”

“I wasn't expecting that. But go on.”

Kyndoril took a deep breath. “He seems to think that the Aedra betrayed Mer in favor of Man. He might be seeking revenge against them.”

And this made the Dunmer laugh. “If your Aedra... if these Divines gave a guar's toenail about what happens to the Imperials, would Nirn's fate hinge on the right man wearing Lorkhan's blood? But, this explains why he picked a temple. And is that all you know?”

“It is.”

“Good. Now, on to my next problem. It concerns you, High Elf.”

Kyndoril blinked, then placed his hand over his heart in fake shock. “But sir, I don't understand. I am but a humble crime scene dweller.”

“Yes, yes, I know. You're just a lost little lord of Summerset, tricked by the wicked Gray Fox. I didn't introduce myself properly, did I? Name's Rhylus. I'm with the Thieves Guild.”

And Kyndoril had several questions. Most of them were angry, some were purely hostile, and the rest were just confused. So instead, he settled for pointing out the reason for his newly increased suspicion.

“Your boss almost got me stabbed, beaten, and executed.”

“Yeah, he told me to apologize for that. He wasn't expecting _all_ of that to happen. But, I'll get to the point. You weren't the only strange Altmeri visitor. We know that at least one followed you off that ship and lurked around Anvil for a while.”

“Oh. You must mean Ohmonir,” Kyndoril told him. “But....”

He eyed Rhylus. The mer seemed curious, interested....

“You're really with the Thieves Guild?” Kyndoril asked. “All my dealings regarding House Rilis, direct or otherwise, have only led to disaster. Or sabotage.”

“I have nothing to gain from Summerset politics,” said Rhylus. “For one thing, I'm from Davon's Watch. For another....”

Rhylus unbuckled his jack and lifted his shirt. A pair of black lions were tattooed from his belly to his chest.

“Why exactly are they biting your nipples?”

“Oh, hush. I wasn't asked if I wanted tit lions. Or ass lions. I wasn't even asked if I wanted to join the Covenant army. But there I was....”

“But you're from Davon's Watch? In Morrowind?”

Rhylus ignored him and began to fasten his jack again. “You heard me. Now, _you_ look like you’re interested in the guild’s business. And the guild is interested in yours.”

“But why care?”

“Normally we wouldn’t, but your mer caught the Gray Fox’s attention when he started snooping around. So, want to do business?”

“This is a lot to ask of a mer in my position,” Kyndoril said. He thought of the docks again, and the journey home that wasn't going to happen. Martin and the threat of Oblivion. The law, that already considered him an enemy of the Empire and still chased him. Things that weighed on his heart and thoughts. Things that were... beyond him. Yet despite it all, House Rilis still occupied his most venomous curiosity. “I can't just join the Thieves Guild....”

“Of course, of course.... Why should the high and mighty lord stoop to our level? But we're only looking for a partnership, if you would call it that.”

And then, he thought, perhaps there was something to be gained.

“My ring.”

“Hm?”

“A very distinct ring, with the crest of my house. When the Gray Fox shoved that necklace on me, he made off with my ring. Losing it made it impossible for me to defend myself. If your boss will return it, I'm at the guild's disposal.”

Rhylus' eyes narrowed. “Elf, let me ask you something. What good does it do us to steal a rare, valuable ring from the finger of a kinlord? You can't just fence such a distinct item. It's just stupid to try and make off with something you don't need when you're busy planting hot loot on someone. The Gray Fox barely escaped. And he didn't have any Altmer ring to show for it.”

“But... I know I had it on the ship.”

“Could you have lost it there?”

“Absolutely not. It was on my finger the whole time. And....”

“Really? Did anyone get into close contact with you on the trip?”

“No, no, except....” He remembered that damned face. The seductive grin. The way he'd looked sprawled on silk sheets.... But! more importantly, how Ohmonir had taken his hand before he'd left, as they said their goodbyes. “That... Rilis... _cad!_ ”

“Well! Shall we get started?”

–

Rhylus made excellent company. He was good for conversation and direct in his speech. He also consecrated what space he could to keep Umaril out of their dreams.

“But if you worship Meridia, and Umaril worships Meridia, then what's to stop him from coming in anyway?” Kyndoril asked him.

“The difference is _I'm_ actually _asking_ for her power instead of throwing it around like it was mine in the first place,” Rhylus said. “That means a lot to most gods. But if it doesn't, that's usually a sign they won't think twice about letting someone else slaughter you to take your place.”

Kyndoril tried not to think about what that meant for the Aedra, but failed. In the end, he decided that the importance of prayer and consideration stressed in Aedra worship was at least a good thing.

With their safety established, and his sense of ease growing, Kyndoril began to share what he knew of Rilis and their presence in Cyrodiil.

“They're an old family of the Summerset Isles. They've ruled Firsthold for thousands of years. They even helped establish the Mages Guild,” Kyndoril explained. “But their family is cursed. Their lords keep falling to daedric influence. Even High Kinlord Rilis XII, the very mer who let Vanus Galerion establish the guild, was imprisoned for daedra worship.

“His son was a good mer. But eventually, his heirs took up the family legacy of necromancy and daedra worship... quietly. It was enough to spark rumors. But the others houses and Alinor? They've never seen fit to act.

“And then we have Silabaene. A few centuries old. He's quite a... traditional kinlord. And by that we mean cold, distant, ruthless–”

Rhylus stopped him with a wave of his hand. “The warm but ruthless ones aren't better, kid. But, go on.”

“Well, suffice to say, he would probably execute his servants for being literate if he could get away with it. I'm talking about a mer who would have a petty thief flogged in public and then left out under the sun.”

“Sounds perfectly reasonable by Imperial standards. Gods, what does your little kinhouse do with crooks?”

“A reasonable act of service for whoever they wronged, of course. With counseling from the priests of the Aedra and healers of the mind.”

Rhylus gave him a tired, pitying look. “Bless your big flowery heart.”

Kyndoril sighed. “It was no secret that there was a bit of strife between House Rilis and my mother. It reached its peak in the aftermath of Tiber Septim's conquest of the isles. They both hated the Empire, but once House Rilis suggested drastic means of rebellion with unholy magics, she made it clear that no mer of Rilis would seed her bloodline for a thousand years. Hasn't stopped Silabaene from trying to set me up with some niece or cousin of his, though.

“And here we are. I’ve attempted to be diplomatic with Silabaene. And now he’s tried to get rid of me! But I doubt that was his sole purpose in Cyrodiil.”

“Yes, these things are usually more complicated than that,” said Rhylus. “Now, this mer who followed you from the dock....”

“Ohmonir, if that is his real name.... I had no idea he served Rilis at the time. I only heard later that he was visiting Castle Anvil on their behalf!”

And then Kyndoril remembered another horrifying detail. “When Silabaene came to gloat in Skingrad, he _knew_ that I'd chosen to flee instead of seek help from his house. That... did not sit well with him….”

“What I want to know is _how_ Silabaene knew to track you and what else he's after. What are his connections back on Auridon?”

“Well, his kinhouse has been close to Skywatch for some time now.” Kyndoril considered a few old tales from the back of his studies. “At least one of their number was a heretic, centuries ago. Connected to the Dagonites? No, no. That's beneath even him.”

He looked up at Rhylus. Rhylus had the tired expression of a very old mer preparing to tell a naive twenty-year-old that the world was far worse than everyone had made it out to be.

“If that's true, that's beyond the guild.”

“You're not serious.”

“I am deadly serious. A bunch of haughty elves involved with Dagon cultists show up in Cyrodiil, and the next thing we know, the Deadlands break loose?”

“He's also a member of the Thalmor Council,” said Kyndoril. “And he enjoys high status as a student of the Crystal Tower. But neither of those things carry weight in Cyrodiil.”

Rhylus huffed and cracked his knuckles. “Rest assured, this will all be relayed to the guild. But now? We need to get to work. And the best lead we've got is Ohmonir. You should start with him. Get into the castle and see what he knows.”

“What? Why me? If you've known all this time–”

“The guild has too much on its hands. And sometimes, an outlan... an outsider is the perfect person for the job.”

“But... I... the bounty?”

“Listen. You do this, I deal with Meridia's rogue king problem, the Thieves Guild gets to focus on Cyrodiil. Everyone wins.”

“And if I get caught and thrown back into prison?”

“Oh, don't worry about that. By the time you're in there, we'll have things sorted out.”

Kyndoril stretched his stiff shoulders. “Fine. Now, just one more question. How is it I'm supposed to get into the castle without being noticed and hauled off before I can _find_ the mer?”

Rhylus smiled. “Have you ever noticed how sickeningly pious these Colovians are?”


	13. The Sounding Horn

Kyndoril relaxed in a fine bed, that night. Stars be praised, Rhylus' plan had _worked_. He had only needed to present himself as a priest who'd survived the destruction of Kvatch. This, and that the Temple of Dibella had been sacked by an unknown murderer, inspired Countess Umbranox to welcome him as a guest while he prayed to Akatosh and reflected on the reality that Kvatch was gone but he had been spared.

Yes, being a priest was the way to travel Cyrodiil....

He glimpsed a surprising number of Altmer that evening. A few were palace servants, some with accents that he placed in Sunhold or Vulkhel Guard. At least one was certainly a noble of the Gold Coast. But no one stood out.

–

The harbor burned. Elven ships cracked and sank where they were anchored. In the city, mortal screams were drowned by the roar of the flames. Dremora, daedroth, and a _titan_ of all terrible creatures advanced, as if the Aldmeri guard of King's Haven were nothing.

And Kyndoril found himself screaming. “Akatosh!” No, no, that wasn't right. “Auri-El! Where are you?!”

But King's Haven fell away, replaced by the starry Void.

The Bear came to him, massive and imposing, despite its seeming calm. It approached softly on great paws and gazed down at him with startling eyes.

“Where are _you_ , High Kinlord, when your neighbors cry out for relief? When the Crystal Tower calls for aid?”

“I'm doing what I can!”

The Bear was not angered by his shout, but he did sigh. If Aetherial Bears could sigh. “As is Auri-El. His love for mortalkind is endless. He gave much of his being, as did I, to shape all that is in the Mundus. But his might and reach are Limited.”

And that was why Martin was returning to Jauffre and the Amulet of Kings, he reminded himself. With luck, he'd already made it back to Weynon. And with the Blades, it was only a matter of time before Martin was crowned and things were set right.

Kyndoril drew a breath and steadied himself.

“And who are you supposed to be, anyway?” Kyndoril asked. “I'm pretty sure that huge Dragon was Auri-El and the Fox was Lorkhan. But you?”

“I am the voice who stays the hand. The cup of water offered to the thirsty. The sounding of the horn.”

Kyndoril looked up at the Bear. Then recalled his lessons on Atmoran spirituality. “Shouldn't you be the Whale?”

“I am also confused with my brother, who ignored my pleas, and now guards his bones, waiting for the Time Out of Time when his chosen master grows weary of him, as I have warned.”

“Stendarr...!”

The Bear did not seem to object to having a mer hug his leg, or a face buried in his fur.

“Wait, why are you a Bear?”

“Do you ask Auri-El why he is a Dragon? Or Lorkhan why he appeared as a Fox?”

“Point taken.”

“Rest now, young one. Know that Auri-El hears your prayers and my pleas. Go forward, knowing that I am here, and have always been here.... We will meet again. I promise you that.”

–

When Kyndoril woke, he felt the soft warmth of his bed and a hazy peace. One that gradually drifted away like a summer morning fog as he remembered why he was still in Castle Anvil.

He dressed, combed his hair, and reminded himself that he was a priest. Not a lord, not a wanted elf, merely a servant of the gods. And the illusion seemed to work on the Colovian man who waited on him in the dining hall that morning.

“So you're a man of Akatosh?”

There was something familiar about the man, his height, his demeanor, though Kyndoril couldn't remember where he'd seen him before, if they had ever met at all.

“I have endeavored to serve him all my life,” Kyndoril replied. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, you don't need to concern yourself with someone like me,” said the servant. “But, would you consider seeing to one of our guests later? Falion seems... troubled.”

Unease settled into his gut. It was one thing to claim affiliation with the Chapel of Akatosh. Now, he realized, there was much more to disguise than dressing the part and making an introduction. He needed to think of an excuse, one that a priest would make. Quickly. The man wanted an answer!

“Certainly.”

Kyndoril tried to keep a warm, patient smile on his face while his mind screamed in panic. He was going to back to jail. He was going to be exposed as a fraud and get sent straight back to the Imperial City because of his inability to commit to a plan.

“But who is this Falion?” he asked.

“Oh, he's visiting from Firsthold. And what happened to Kvatch has him scared. He tried to hurry back to Auridon, but by the time he got to the dock, it was too late.”

Kyndoril wondered if the man next to him was really a servant. Rhylus had promised some form of assistance, after all....

“Perhaps he's in need of council. Or maybe,” Kyndoril smiled, thinking of the trouble Martin had given him, “butting heads with a priest of Cyrodiil will take his mind off his anxiety. Where may I find this poor mer?”

–

Falion had been staying in guest rooms in a quiet, more remote wing, granted by Anvil at the request of his master. Once he learned that, it did not take long to track the mer down. Not many elves had a good reason to wander so far into the palace, after all. But Kyndoril waited until the early evening, when Falion left, to see if the lead was true.

Breaking into the room was easy. It was even pitiful that Castle Anvil's doors did not provide security against unauthorized magic. But as he slipped in and locked the room behind him, he put the thought out of his mind again. That, and the alarm bell ringing in his head, that he would be lucky if he weren't found out now.

He quickly found the evidence he needed to prove the identity of Falion's lord. Sitting neatly in a desk drawer were letters and documents bearing the crests of House Rilis and Firsthold. And most recent of them was a note that made Kyndoril's heart skip a beat. He recognized the handwriting.

_Falion,_

_I can assure your safety while you wait patiently in Anvil for my return. The city has thwarted even our fleets in past eras. No daedric abominations will break through the walls._

_But I cannot promise my continued good will if your complaints continue. If my next letter does not find you in Anvil, my wrath will follow._

Were it not for the fact that Silabaene had penned it, Kyndoril never would have guessed that a kinlord would write such a thing. He knew his own mother had a reputation. But she would have sooner challenged a welwa to fisticuffs than menace her servants.

There were other notes.

_The boy has finally brought the Empire upon himself. There is no need to prepare for his company. The Imperial City prison can break any man, or mer of equally low standing. He will be more useful after he is reminded of his fragility upon the Wheel._

So, Silabaene had planned to let him wait, to let him dread the headsman's axe. Of course he had.

There were other pieces of correspondence. Instructions to continue waiting. Specific requests for various alchemical supplies and reagents from the Gold Coast. For some reason, he even demanded soul gems.

_My ancestor might have been generous to allow Vanus Galerion his guild, but the spread of arcane learning through Tamriel has been useful._

Then there were strange references to elven history, more notes regarding Luxurene and what Silabaene considered failings. One note addressed to Ohmonir, however, left him with an unease he could not explain.

_Leave the belt. It will only bring trouble if it disappears._

There were plenty of damning things in that stack of papers. But none of it was of any consequence to Cyrodiil, none of it mentioned Silabaene or Ohmonir's whereabouts, and his ring was missing from the room. And so, he decided to approach the situation as the high kinlord that he – and Falion – knew he was.

But getting this opportunity meant lurking out of sight of the door until Falion meandered back to his quarters. If mer are good at anything, he supposed, it is waiting.

–

Falion seemed to be a young mer. His hair was thick and brown, there was no sign of a beard yet, his face was smooth and soft, and, most telling, his bright amber eyes still looked a bit large on his face. He might have been twenty-five. Thirty, to be generous. It _almost_ saddened Kyndoril to see those eyes widen in shock as the mer caught sight of him.

“There’s no need to be alarmed,” Kyndoril said. “Let us speak.”

“What is the meaning of this? I did not request any–”

Kyndoril lowered the hood of his robes. “The hospitality of House Rilis is sadly lacking, if you cannot even recognize a guest you've been waiting for.”

Instead of answering, Falion gave a strange cry, then called for the guards. Kyndoril swore, closed the distance between them, and clapped a hand tightly over Falion’s mouth. Perhaps it was luck that the door did not open. There wasn't even the sound of someone struggling with the handle or the lock. Falion’s panicked screams eventually grew quiet.

“Do that again,” Kyndoril snarled, “and I will muffle your tongue.”

He removed his hand and wiped it on his robe.

“Y-You aren't the High Kinlord of Luxurene,” Falion stammered. “He was imprisoned. In the Imperial City.”

“Hush! It shames Rilis that you would speak so openly of the misfortunes of other houses. But, you are young, and your master is to blame for your position. And it is your master who shames Rilis in his plot to see me imprisoned and broken.”

Falion merely stood there, wordless, shaking.

“I pity you, Falion,” Kyndoril said. “But your master has caused my house grief, and by Xen, I will see that repaid. Which brings me to you.”

And that was where the young servant of Rilis broke. Kyndoril felt his heart wrench as Falion fell to his knees.

“Mercy, Kinlord! I... please... I had nothing to do with you!”

“Oh, you are young, but you must know by now that such things hardly matter. Not in Summerset. And certainly not in House Rilis....”

“Please.... This humble servant is harmless....”

Kyndoril waited and pretended to consider. Then, he spoke again. “But _I_ am not of Rilis. And, though your master's acts are abhorrent in the eyes of Aldmeri law, I doubt that His Majesty would hold you responsible for your part, small as it is. Which means this can be easy for you. Painless, even.”

“H...how can this lowborn assist you?”

“I only want information. Cooperate, and my kinhouse will forgive your role in Silabaene's crimes against my family.”

“But.... But... my kinlord will....”

“Does Silabaene need to know? Or... are you afraid of his retribution?”

Falion gave a weak nod.

“Mara's heart, that's unfortunate.” Kyndoril drew his sword. “Then I'm afraid you will speak under dur–”

Falion's eyes rolled back in his head and his shoulders sagged, and Kyndoril dropped his sword to catch the mer as he fainted.

By the time he came to, Kyndoril had half-carried him to the bed, laid him there, moved the desk chair over, and sat down to wait. Falion's eyes drifted over him, then snapped open.

“What do you _want_ with me?”

“Auri-El's taint, Falion. Silabaene has no business keeping you,” Kyndoril said. “I will not ask you what the fool is doing in Cyrodiil, if that is any comfort. But there are things I must know. Will you speak?”

“Fine... fine.... Stars, what do you want?”

“I believe Ohmonir stole my ring.”

“Yes. He did. Just as my lord asked. He was damn proud of himself....”

“Where is it?”

Falion's lip trembled. “I don't know. Ohmonir took it with him when he left. When he... went to Cheydinhal. But... but, listen, you mustn't get involved.”

Kyndoril's heart fell. “Why on Nirn would he be in Cheydinhal?”

“Please, I've said too much....”

He gave him a hard stare, but Falion refused to say another word.

“All right. Fine. By Stendarr's grace, and my authority as kinlord of my house, I forgive you.”

Kyndoril went to retrieve his sword.

“I... I won't forget this, Kinlord.”

He turned to look at Falion. The mer had sat up again.

“Know that I am grateful to you as well,” said Kyndoril. “If there is nothing keeping you in Firsthold, consider Luxurene. You might find life more suited to you there.”

“My lord would see me dead first....”

“My offer remains. Good luck to you, Falion. Mara willing, I will not trouble you again.”

“Stars light your steps....”

Kyndoril left, and Falion did not call the guards or make any attempt to pursue him. But for all that Altmer of Summerset supposedly valued mercy, Silabaene had none in supply. It was only a matter of time before he reminded Falion that he was more awesome than whatever value the boy possessed. The fragility of life upon the Wheel _was_ a useful little tool to such a mer.


	14. A Mer's Best Friend

“Wait. So Silabaene wrote about framing you, and you're telling me you didn't keep any evidence that would have cleared your name?”

Kyndoril avoided Rhylus' disbelieving stare. “Taking it would have put the servant in danger if Silabaene decided to check. And I still have my own crimes, that I committed myself, that I'm trying not to answer for.”

“And then you exposed yourself?”

“Heavens! In front of a servant? No!”

“Oh, by Meridia....”

Kyndoril reclined against the stone wall of the crypt, and cast another magelight as Rhylus' work began to grow dim. “Speaking of the Lady of Light, how did your mission go?”

“Well, I know one thing. Umaril's been skulking west of Anvil, in an old Ayleid temple by the sea. Aurorans are no trouble, but the bastard nearly ran me through. Best if you leave him to me.”

“Are you sure that's safe?”

“Safe? I should have died centuries ago. Umaril should have _stayed_ dead. It's only right for me to confront him. What I don't understand is why you choose to pursue _your_ mark when you could drag that little wretch before the countess and put Cyrodiil behind you.”

“Please. Falion's as much a victim as I am. That he's forced to serve my enemy doesn't change that.”

“All offense intended, but you wouldn't last a day in Morrowind.”

“Let's see you deal with Summerset, Sir Lion-Tits.”

“Sure. If I ever get to retire. Now, what do you plan on doing about Cheydinhal? I suppose you're going to pack your things and set off at the break of dawn, Azura's light guiding you to your destiny?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“I'll just ask the guild to open a portal. Cheydinhal is only on the other side of the country. It shouldn't be that difficult.”

“Gods, you have it easy. I'll pass what you've gathered to the Gray Fox, poor fellow....”

“Why should Silabaene trouble him?”

“Like I said. It doesn't hurt us if one of your rivals has it in for you. But his business in Anvil? Reagents and soul gems? That's worrying. But that’s no trouble for the guild. We'll know what's going on by Loredas. And I think that if you can still your anxious feet for a few days, we can share that knowledge with you.”

Kyndoril shrugged. “I'd be loathe to waste this opportunity to chase Rilis, after your help.”

“Let me rephrase that,” Rhylus smiled. “It's best to know what you're dealing with before you go running after the trusted servant of a dangerous mer who's already decided to torture you, hmmm?”

“Please. I know who I'm dealing with, what his family has done before, and what I could face. Give your guildmaster my thanks, but I leave tomorrow.”

And to his surprise, Rhylus gave a little smile. “Oh, to be young and eager again.... Wait here a minute. I'm going to see if the dead left any decent tea behind.”

As Rhylus stood up to leave, an odd thought came to Kyndoril's mind. He wasn't sure where it came from, or what exactly it was connected to, or if it actually made sense.

“Rhylus? There's something else.”

“Eh?”

“Leave me for Umaril tonight. I want a word with him.”

–

Rhylus was not keen to let Umaril, in body or spirit, into the Great Chapel of Dibella. But, with a sarcastic, “Well, son, I think you're finally old enough to make your own decisions,” he agreed to leave Kyndoril unguarded by his wards.

And so the young lord found himself pulled once more into the realm of white. And the towering, dragon-helmed mer stood waiting for him, displeasure obvious in the air.

“Umaril adonai....”

“You dare return?”

“Your anger is great, but I cannot forget your words,” said Kyndoril. “And I have felt fear and grief for elvenkind as well. Summerset is in danger. All of Tamriel, all of Nirn may well be beset by Mehrunes Dagon.”

“Why, then, do your mortal gods not come to your aid?”

The longer Kyndoril considered his reply, the weaker it seemed. “Well... great Umaril... I have... been granted counsel by Stendarr himself, you see. I... have been told that while Auri-El's love is great, he is... limited, in his means of action. He... er... did give up a lot to create us. As.... As you know.”

This did not seem to impress Umaril.

“If that is true, the fate of Nirn cannot be entrusted to the so-called Aedra.”

“What I... what I'm getting at is,” Kyndoril went on, wishing every second that his mouth would just stop working, “I doubt we as mer were betrayed, as much as left to the whims of humankind by some divine tragedy. Would you not speak to Stendarr? Or Mara, perhaps?”

He knew, before he was banished again from the dream, that Umaril did not think much of his idea.

–

Rhylus had no snarky comment for him in the morning – only a surprisingly sincere attempt at showing sympathy.

“Listen. Some elves are far too vengeful for their own good and won't be talked down. I won't say that trying was a good idea. But, it did take stones, and stones are in short supply this era.”

Rhylus was right. He should have known better after all the stories his mother had told him. So, Kyndoril agreed to leave the king chasing to him while he worried about the kinlord.

“Right, right. _Your_ elven vengeance quest,” said Rhylus. “Ah, I kid. The east will be better for you. The guards won't be looking for you, and neither will Umaril. Gods help you with everything else.”

“Thank you, sera.”

“Sir Lion-Tits will do, kid.”

Kyndoril snorted, then bowed. “Sir Lion-Tits. Stars keep you safe, or I won't have anyone to boast at when I return.”

–

The mages of Anvil had no difficulties opening a portal across Cyrodiil into Cheydinhal. But there was some reluctance. The magister of Cheydinhal had expressly asked that no such thing occur. It was not for safety's sake; Magister Falcar found it disruptive – a nuisance. Still, Kyndoril was not afraid to plead, and offered to take responsibility if Falcar was angered. So, he had his portal.

Nobody was waiting to object to his appearance on the other side. Barrels and a table had been smashed and thrown aside, a rug had slipped across the stone floor, and many heavy books lay scattered. Kyndoril picked his way quickly through the debris and looked for someone to tell him what in hells had happened.

He found the answer in a small room off the entrance hall. And then he considered turning and fleeing. For a werewolf, a great, gray _werewolf_ who stood _several_ heads over his own height, had lifted an Altmer mage off the floor and pinned him to the wall with one paw.

Kyndoril was not aware that he had drawn his sword until the beast's ears swiveled, and a massive head turned to look at him.

Somehow, through its beastly throat, the werewolf spoke in a deep, harsh voice. “ **Put that thing away, will you?** ”

“No. Put... put the mer down!”

“ **Drop the sword, priest!** ”

Before Kyndoril could move, the werewolf gave a terrible yelp. And the mer dropped to the floor, picked himself up, and ran, pushing Kyndoril aside as he fled. The werewolf fell to one massive knee, snarling and clutching a hairy, bleeding forearm.

The beast's form began to shrink. And soon, there was no monster. Just a small human in leather and fur, with a wolf-mantled helm.

“Shit. Shit....”

Kyndoril watched the woman for a moment, as _human_ blood leaked past fingers and dripped to the wooden floor. Then he sheathed his sword. “I can help you, if you don't turn on me.”

“Damn it! This is your fault!”

The werewolf was all bark, it seemed. He approached and knelt next to her. “If you can't heal that, let me see it.”

The Breton still bared teeth. But she allowed him to look at her arm. Something had left a deep cut close to the inside of her elbow; he called upon his magicka to mend the wound before it could bleed any more. Flesh closed and smoothed over, leaving nothing more than a faint pink rash.

“You'll want to find a more skilled healer soon,” Kyndoril told her, as he remembered the aftermath of the Kvatch gate. “The bleeding's stopped, but there might be more damage than there seems.”

“I'll be fine when Brenor gets back up here.”

“Brenor?”

“Wood Elf. I told him to hold my things while I cornered Falcar. And then _you..._!”

The daedric snarl had returned to her voice. He backed away.

“I'm terribly sorry, but one does not stand by while a werewolf prepares to savage someone.”

“One does– Argh. _You_ do if you don't want to get killed. What's wrong with you?”

“Well, you haven't killed me yet.... But why did.... Oh dear heavens, did you say Falcar?”

“He's a murderer. He's been sending new mages to die. He's–”

A voice, with a distinct Silvenar accent, called out somewhere across the entrance hall. “He's a necromancer!”

The Breton turned her head, flinched, and raised her good arm to rub the side of her neck. “Damn it. Brenor, you're serious?!”

Then came the commotion. A Bosmer, blond hair up in a bizarre swirl, emerged from a stairwell, only to disappear behind a descending cloud of mages with loud, frantic questions about their magister. Kyndoril caught words about black soul gems and a well before the Breton pushed her way through the group and demanded calm.

“Calm!” snapped one of the human mages. “You of all things want us to be calm?”

His voice was drowned in more shouts, about werewolves, gratitude, and common courtesy, until an Argonian called for silence and turned to address the werewolf.

“We're grateful for your help and we _will_ keep your secret. But it would be best if you left for now.”

The woman did not show any objections, but Brenor made a crude gesture at the mages as soon as the Breton's back was turned.

Kyndoril weighed his options. Then, feeling only more foolish, he ran to catch up with the pair.

–

Kyndoril caught up to them at the end of the street; the Bosmer’s hair was hard to miss. But the two were not eager to talk to him at first.

“Listen, about earlier–”

The Breton kept walking. “Piss off.”

“Yeah!” exclaimed Brenor. “What she said!”

“I really am sorry,” Kyndoril said. “Look, my mother has been with the guild for centuries, we both knew Vanus Galerion, and he would not have stood for that. And I have to agree that was terribly unfair.”

“Ha! Must be nice,” said the Breton, “just getting to _decide_ what's unfair.”

“Could I at least buy you drinks?”

“And a room, then we'll talk.”

“Done. Wait. Did you just–”

“There's a good man. Come on, time to put your septims where your mouth is.”

Kyndoril felt his face burn and tried to wrench his mind back out of past nights. “Of course. And I really am–”

“Shut up, thank you, let's go.”

And that was how he rented them a room at the Bridge Inn, where she invited him upstairs to talk.

The Breton began in a soft whisper. “We came here looking for someone.”

“Hold on, is this a secret? I can leave if you prefer.”

“No point now. We _were_ following the trail of a dangerous mage. You've heard of the Emperor, right? His murder?”

“I... actually I....” Oh, how much to tell? “Yes, I heard. His death came as a shock.”

But the Breton was not fooled. “Hold on? I thought you smelled familiar.... You're that elf who got to go free when the Emperor tried to escape, aren't you....”

“Then....” Kyndoril racked his memories. “Well, you're not the necrophiliac who was across from me. How did _you_ get out of jail?”

“The Blades said I could go free if I did a service for the Empire. And now I'm here. Looking for the people who killed the Emperor. And Falcar threw me off track, damn it.”

“As it happens, I'm also in search of someone,” Kyndoril said. “But if it's any use to you, I know that the people who killed Uriel were Dagonites. What would they be doing out here, though?”

“Brenor?”

The Bosmer pulled a large sheet of parchment out of his bag and unrolled it, revealing a hastily drawn map of Cyrodiil with a mark somewhere close to the eastern Jerall Mountains.

“I envy the skill of the hand that copied this,” Kyndoril said.

“It was traced,” said the Breton. “All that was missing was that mark, until the sun hit that grave just right.”

“And I suppose this is the location of your Dagonites?”

“This is the only city at that marking on the map. The Mythic Dawn.... They're somewhere out here. And what about you, High Elf? What's your real reason for coming here?”

A twinge of unease settled in his gut. “The one I followed here... I seek an Altmer named Ohmonir, a servant of High Kinlord...”

Brenor's eyes widened. He looked from the Breton, to his, then down to the floor of their room.

“... Silabaene. Dear Brenor, what's come over you?”

Brenor and the woman exchanged suspicious glances. They both looked back at him, and the woman spoke. “Why? What do you want with this guy?”

Kyndoril blinked. “You see, the main reason I was imprisoned.... I was framed, but Ohmonir had stolen my ring, so I couldn't prove my identity. And now I know that Ohmonir sabotaged me, under Silabaene's orders.”

“Ah. You're here for revenge.”

“Er. Not... not revenge exactly. Silabaene could be dangerous! He was plotting something else, something foul. But as I have no way to bring this to my king's attention, and no clear understanding of his dealings here, I have no choice but to investigate for myself.”

“Yeah, it's revenge. But fine. We've got no other leads, so we're in.”

–

Kyndoril cast a quick eye over the rest of the patrons as he descended the steps. Out of all of them, not a single one had Ohmonir's hair or face. Unsure if this boded well or not, he approached the innkeeper.

“Mariana, if I could trouble you again?” he whispered.

“Is there something you need?”

“The accommodations are comfortable. But I've come to Cheydinhal on a personal matter, and I would like to ask your assistance.”

“Oh. Well, I can tell you anything about this city....”

In the corner of his eye, he saw Brenor slip past and disappear from view somewhere behind the counter.

“I'm looking for another Altmer. Tall, of course. Red hair. His name is Ohmonir. I....” He paused, and pretended to grimace at the counter, as if ashamed of his admission. “The mer is a dear friend, and I've heard nothing of him since this Oblivion crisis began....”

“Say no more,” said Mariana. “He's been a regular here for a while. I can point him to you if he comes in tonight.”

Kyndoril felt a strange emotion: a mix of panic, relief, and vindictive joy. “Oh, Divines be praised! Thank you, Mariana! Now... ah... my companions will be annoyed if I forget to ask about dinner before I return to them.”

“We aren't serving dinner for another hour, but I have some apples and bread I can get you.”

“That would be perfect.”

By the time Mariana had turned away from him, Brenor had slipped away. Kyndoril paid the two septims for the food and hurried back to the Bosmer and Breton witch.

“Your 'friend' has had a room here for a while,” Brenor whispered the moment Kyndoril shut the door again. “Well? Are we really going to wait for him? Or do you want to see what he's hiding in there?”

“Gods, let me have a bite first,” Kyndoril said. “I'd rather not wait around, though. Falion was one thing. I trust Ohmonir far less after his stunt back in Anvil. Oh, ah... are you all right with this fare, Brenor...?”

But Brenor had already torn a chunk out of the bread. “Sure. It's not like _I_ cut the wheat.”

As soon as they had eaten their fill, Brenor poked his head out into the hall, then led them out and straight to the room that he was sure belonged to their target. The Breton took a lockpick from a pouch, but Kyndoril opened the lock with a wave of his hand before she could start working on it. The door creaked open.

While the Breton eased the door shut again, Kyndoril moved straight to the table and began his search. It was only a moment before he turned up more correspondence with Silabaene.

_Ohmonir_ ,

_Your dedication to Aldmeris is admirable, but mind yourself. You serve no gods but the Aedra to whom we owe our splendor. All others are but a means to that end. Do not grow comfortable under Camoran's tutelage._

“By Sheor, we were right.”

Kyndoril started, then frowned at the Breton who’d appeared at his arm. “Y'ffre's breath, don't scare me like that.”

“It's got to be Mankar Camoran,” she hissed. “That's the one we're after. The leader of the Mythic Dawn.”

He felt a sudden chill. “I don't want to think Silabaene's using Dagon. That... would make me obligated to tell the High King of Alinor. I... I can't just....”

“What kind of elf king are you?”

His pride stung. “I can't expect you to know the ways of Altmeri nobility. But if I were wrong, and Silabaene has ways of proving someone wrong, my entire house would be disgraced beyond repair.”

“Then we make sure we're right first.” And she shuffled through Ohmonir's things.

“Copies of the _Commentaries_ ,” Brenor said somewhere behind them. “And here's the rare fourth volume....”

Kyndoril gathered what the woman put aside for him – a series of increasingly damning letters, alerting Ohmonir of everything from Kyndoril's flight from Anvil, to his capture in Skingrad and imprisonment, to his disappearance after the Emperor's murder, along with the reassurance that he would not soon escape from Tamriel. He considered taking _these_ , but before he could come to a decision, the Breton had unfolded a map of the lands around Cheydinhal.

“This letter says to travel to Hestra's stone and go northeast, along the lake.... That's a good start, but....”

Without another word, she folded the map again and shoved it into her bag. “Brenor, has our new friend left anything smelly behind?”


	15. The Missing Flower

Kyndoril made a mental note to wash his clothes more thoroughly. The woman had insisted they go, immediately, and she led them away from Cheydinhal following nothing but the scent of Ohmonir's breeches. How a werewolf could still smell something like that on the air was beyond him, for he was no werewolf, and he did not care to ask Hircine how exactly a manbeast could detect someone's backside miles away.

Mercifully, the very person tracking the scent of said backside distracted him with talk that had nothing to do with Ohmonir's soft, golden arse.

“My ancestors moved from the Druadachs to Cyrodiil when the Longhouse Emperors took over. They got all cozy and pretended to be like the Colovians. Then the Planemeld happened. A daughter ran away to Valenwood, and became a citizen of the Aldmeri Dominion. They say that Y'ffre blessed her, even though she was a werewolf.”

“Doesn't Y'ffre hate shapeshifters?” Kyndoril asked.

“We can't write every word in our own stories, and no one knows that better than Y'ffre. Or at least, that's what the wyresses told me.”

“But why leave the Dominion?”

“She loved Summerset and Valenwood. But High Rock called to her. She went to see the Wyrd trees and pray to Y'ffre like the Aldmer taught the first Bretons. But Reach Bretons and wyresses are all witches to Empire-loving High Rock and their human gods. So she went east, into the Reach. To Markarth.”

“And that's where your line begins, I suppose....”

“Well, first she had to drive out the Molag Bal cultists and beat some sense into the ones too stupid to run. And Y'ffre came to Markarth.”

“So where does that leave Hircine, exactly?”

“Y'ffre is life and order. Hircine is death and chaos. These things can't exist without each other. That, and the first wyress of Markarth had to reconcile a lot of daedra to keep everyone happy. But then... Tiber Septim came. And most of us remember Y'ffre and Hircine, but we're pretty fond of Mehrunes Dagon, now.”

Kyndoril scoffed, then turned his head to look at Brenor, who shrugged.

“Mehrunes Dagon? At a time like _this_?” Kyndoril asked.

“Some people liked the idea of Skyrim getting kicked out, getting what they deserve after everything they did to us. But don't get any ideas. It would take more than a bunch of sad old crones to do what the Mythic Dawn did.”

Kyndoril shut his mouth, and did not speak for a while longer.

“What brought you to Cyrodiil?” he finally asked.

“I was tired of living under Nords, and I'm not going back.”

“Are the Cyrods better?”

“I've been thrown in jail twice. And the second time it was because they got bored of making me fight people. Everyone else is okay.” The woman turned to grin at Brenor. “And you! You believed in me even after they locked me up again!”

“The valiant Grand Champion? Evil?” Brenor exclaimed. “The guards are... are imbeciles!”

“And Brenor's got a stouter heart than any Nord I've ever met. Come on, Brenor, tell him about the Aleswell gate!”

The Bosmer went an odd pink. “Oh.... That? That was awful!”

“Yeah, but that imp.”

“Oh! Yes! You see, the Grand Champion was transformed, fighting two dremora! I was hiding. But then I saw an imp, high up on the rocks. It started shooting lightning at her, but I took the bow and some arrows from a dead daedra...!”

“Yep. And then he didn't even hesitate to follow me into the towers. He got his hands on a sword and shield and covered my back.”

“Not that you left anything alive to go for your back.”

Kyndoril was well-versed in the art of not rolling his eyes or grinning obviously while people carried on as the two did. But he had not had to exercise that skill in some time.

“That one Kynreeve, though,” the Reach woman said.

“Oh! I forgot about that!”

“Brenor got the killing blow on a dremora. He had the honor of breaking the sigil stone after that, of course.”

And so it went on, until Cheydinhal was well behind them, the pines grew thicker, and the hills brought them to Lake Arrius at last.

–

The three did not take long to plan their approach. Kyndoril needed to enter the shrine first, and he would go alone in accordance with the instructions given to seekers of Mankar Camoran's teachings. He would seek Ohmonir, find his ring, and steal away again when he could. All he had to do was play the part of an elf who was interested in serving Lord Dagon until then.

Easy enough, with the others having briefed him on what the Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes contained, and his own knowledge of the ways of Dagon cultists.

Kyndoril braced himself, then crossed the threshold into the Arrius caverns. And as he approached the end of one winding tunnel, where a heavy-looking wooden door had been built into the rock, a human in blood-red robes greeted him.

Step one, he told himself. Present yourself as a like-minded individual. Play along.

“Dawn is breaking....”

Kyndoril stood confused for a heartbeat. “It was getting darker when I came in.”

The cultist did not seem to find that amusing. Step two, Kyndoril chided himself, fail step one.

“Oh! My apologies. Greet the new day.”

The human's eyes narrowed more as he studied his face, and Kyndoril waited, dreading....

“That's a priest robe.”

“And it's a fabulous disguise,” Kyndoril shrugged. “What better way to fool the servants of the Wheel than to pass before them as a humble mer of the cloth?”

“You.... You're not an initiate! You're–!”

The sound of a nose breaking underneath his fist would haunt him, or so he imagined. But the human crumpled to the cave floor and did not move.

“Oh, Mara's crotch,” Kyndoril whispered, checking for a pulse, keeping his ears focused for the sound of anyone coming to investigate the nose-crunching.

The cultist lived. He hoisted the limp man and half-dragged him back toward the mouth of the cave and outside, where the others still waited.

“Well that's the shortest High Elf I've ever seen,” Brenor said, looking at the man's face. “Y'ffre's beard, what did you do?”

“Nothing that a healing spell and care won't mend, I hope.”

The Reach woman sighed and buried her face in one hand. “Werewolf time?”

“Yes,” Brenor said. “Werewolf time.”

“No no no, werewolf time will just make a mess of things,” said Kyndoril. “Just... just tie him up or something. We can try this again.”

“You punched out the doorman,” the Reach woman said. “There _is no_ trying again.”

At this, the doorman started to rouse. First, he tried to right himself. Then, as awareness of his nose came back to him, he let out a pained moan. Finally, he caught sight of the others.

Brenor smiled, then clapped his hands. “So! Would you rather be eaten by a hungry Wood Elf, or a werewolf? I promise I'll let you die first if you choose _me_.”

The cultist fled down the hill and did not look back.

“You know, he might have had the key,” said the Reach woman.

“Oh. Oops.”

And Kyndoril was surprised at how simple the solution to that was. “It's fine. Yes, there was a door in there. But I've opened locks with magic before.”

“I don't think the Mythic Dawn of all people are going to have a lock that can be magically opened,” said the witch.

“You'd be surprised. If it worked in Oblivion, it'll work here too.”

The Mythic Dawn proved to have more foresight than Mehrunes Dagon. But the Reach witch _was_ skilled with a lockpick. And Kyndoril passed deeper into the cave, knowing that the others were close by if the art of subtlety failed again.

The next cultist, a Dunmer, was more welcoming than the last, and Kyndoril took that as a sign that his scuffle on the other side of the door had not been heard. But nervousness returned as the mer asked him to turn over all of his possessions, from his smaller items and what gold he had, to his robes and armor, to his sword. In exchange, he would receive his own robe, in a bold red that declared his fealty to Mehrunes Dagon.

It's a trap, he told himself, already undoing the fastenings of his disguise. It's a trap and they're going to destroy you once they've got you unarmed and in your smalls. Because of course that would happen to him.

The alternative was to punch _this_ cultist in the face as well and risk blowing his cover completely, not a useful idea at all.

The cultist fashion did not suit him, but he resigned himself to it. Kyndoril made a brief, mental apology to Martin, took one last look at his cast aside things, and followed Harrow further into the Arrius caverns.

If it had not been for the inhabitants' devotion to a murderous Daedric Prince of fire, destruction, and death, the caves would have been comfortable. The Mythic Dawn had taken the time to furnish their underground home with things like tables and rugs, and brought in barrels of supplies, food, and drink. Fires chased the chill out, but where the smoke escaped was a mystery.

As they walked, he amused himself with a foolish idea. Perhaps, if Cyrodiil continued being cruel to him, and if no ship would ferry him to the safety of home, he could find a nice cave of his own. It would be better than living in a chapel cellar with an irate Ayleid. And he would declare himself the High King of the Cave, Lord of Where the Sun Does Not Shine.

Thinking of his own joke, he nearly missed the words of Harrow. Something about an initiation....

Of course. His initiation into the ranks of the thralls of Dagon, which he would only perform for show, he silently promised the Aedra. The Aedra, who had allowed him to come this far. The Aedra, who were surely watching now.

And as he thought of Auri-El, he _felt_ a faint cry somewhere ahead, as if something had been disturbed. He silently offered another prayer just to make sure Auri-El knew of his intentions.

The tunnel opened to a balcony of a grand cavern. Below, several Dagonites had gathered before a towering statue of Mehrunes Dagon. A bright blue robe stood out – someone on a stone stage, his arms spread before the crowd.

“Who is that?” Kyndoril whispered.

Harrow gave him a reproachful glance. “Hush! The Master is speaking.”

Kyndoril assumed this 'master' to be Mankar Camoran, and strained his ears to catch his words.

“The Dragon Throne is empty,” Camoran told the crowd, “and we hold the Amulet of Kings!”

Kyndoril's stomach felt chilled. No, no, the Mythic Dawn could _not_ hold the Amulet of Kings, he had delivered that to Jauffre himself. He had seen it left in the care of the Blades, the Emperor's most trusted.... He hurried to keep up with Harrow as the mer led him down the stairs to join the rest.

“Hear now the words of Lord Dagon. 'When I walk the earth again, the faithful among you shall receive your reward...'”

His height gave him some small advantage. Even from the back, he could see it. The Amulet of Kings itself rested against Mankar Camoran's chest.

And after just a few minutes of promising everyone that they'd lord over the rest of mortalkind, Camoran ended his speech. “I go now to Paradise. I shall return with Lord Dagon at the coming of the Dawn!”

And then, two things happened at once. A brief flash of light enveloped the leader of the Mythic Dawn, and an arrow clattered harmlessly to the rocky floor. Heads began turning, there were panicked whispers.... Kyndoril tore his eyes away from the stage to follow their gaze.

The Reach witch stood on the rocky balcony, one foot on the railing, bow clutched in one hand. And this time, Kyndoril understood the Reach-Aldmeris that she roared at the shocked Dagonites.

“Come here and I will grant death to your buttocks!”

Of course that might have been a literal translation. He suspected that she'd intended to sound more crude than that. The mer in the crowd still took offense and prepared spells.

Kyndoril looked back to the stage, only to see Camoran's blue robes disappear through a portal... which closed behind him. The Amulet of Kings was lost.

The outraged shouts of the cult turned to gasps and screams, and a dread _howl_ reduced his legs to flimsy, wobbling twigs. And as he turned again, he saw that the werewolf had leapt down, and was proudly displaying her bulk, flexing her tree-sized arms, and baring her dagger-like teeth at everyone who had not fainted or run screaming from the cavern yet.

But then, she spotted something. And she fixed one cultist under her frightening gaze. And Kyndoril watched as that Dagonite turned and fled.

The hood fell from Ohmonir's head.

As spells began to fly, Kyndoril gave chase, trusting that whatever violent noises he heard behind him meant that his werewolf ally was fighting well and not in true danger. And as the din behind them grew, and they approached the back of the cave, Kyndoril lost patience.

“That's far enough, Ohmonir!”

Ohmonir stumbled as he tried to look back. And the mer's mouth fell open in disbelief. But he did stop, winded, in the shadow cast by the stage and the Dagon statue. And Kyndoril circled until he had both the frantic crowd and Ohmonir in his sight again.

“Kinlord....”

“Rilis dog.”

Ohmonir gave a faint laugh. “You seem a bit shorter than I remember.”

“And you're not looking nearly as confident. So tell me, is it because you're embarrassed to meet your encounters a second time? Or is it that you've finally been cornered?”

“Cornered? My dear kinlord, you've wandered into the shrine of Mehrunes Dagon! Even now, that beast of yours is moments from suffering a....”

Kyndoril glanced beyond Ohmonir's shoulder, where an unfortunate amount of carnage had appeared in the moments they had been speaking. The werewolf gave a piercing howl before lunging off out of sight. Shrieks followed. Somewhere behind, a smaller voice yelled: “Here comes your champion, the Stormfang!”

Ohmonir went considerably paler.

“Well! Of course, you must understand, I... have nothing to do with this _rabble_ ,” he said.

Kyndoril shook his head. “Then why did I have to chase you here, I wonder?”

“You understand the threat the Mythic Dawn poses! The safety of Auridon... of Summerset....”

“I'm not the kinlord who needs to hear this. I have other business with you.”

“Other business, my lord...?”

“You slipped my house ring off my finger aboard our ship from the Isles. You let me get hauled away to Imperial prison. You lurked there, waited for me to beg help from your house. And you conspired with Silabaene to keep me under the thumb of the Empire's so-called justice until I became some... soft, pliable... pet kinlord!”

“Well, what did you expect? He hates you. I, on the other hand, bear no such–”

“Oh, if I could capture that admission and hand it to the High King,” Kyndoril said. “But, there is a more immediate matter....”

“Yes...?”

“My ring, if you would.”

Ohmonir nodded weakly, then removed a glove and pulled something off a finger. And he offered it in his bare hand.

And Kyndoril ignored the pounding of his heart and took it. The floral crest of Luxurene, the tiny inscription in the band, the feel of his magicka were still there. And... he inspected more closely... no obvious curses had been placed upon it, not that anything would be able to breach the protective magic of his house.

Kyndoril pulled the ring back onto his finger at last.

The restoration of his status was less satisfying than he imagined. There he was, High Kinlord of Luxurene once more. The equal – dare he think: better – of every count and countess he had grown to fear. In a hole in the ground. Draped in the red cloth of a Dagonite. The servant of his enemy... kneeling before him?

“No, that's not needed,” Kyndoril said. “We're done here.”

Ohmonir did not move. “What are you saying? A servant of another lord has wronged your house. There _must_ be repayment for–”

“Oh for gods' sakes. This isn't the First Era. I'm not killing you.”

“Of course not. But the laws of Aldmeris demand, at the very least, a period of–”

“I'm not hiring more servants!” Kyndoril exclaimed. “Especially not treacherous, Dagon-worshiping fools. Go back to your... your loathsome hemorrhoid of a master! Go! Begone!”

And, though he feared that he'd left something unfinished, Kyndoril allowed Ohmonir to rise and flee. In time, his only regret would be that he did not order Ohmonir to deliver an excessively rude message to the High Kinlord of Firsthold.


	16. Words of the Pariah

There was little else to do once Ohmonir had escaped. Kyndoril climbed onto the stage for a better vantage point, then noticed something moving. That something turned out to be a someone. A very distraught, scaly someone, naked and bound on an altar beneath the Dagon statue.

Their bindings were too sturdy. But, his eye was quick. Kyndoril retrieved a stray silver dagger from the ground, and approached to cut them free. As he realized a second late, walking up to someone trapped on an altar, while robed, with a knife in his hand, did not look like a friendly gesture.

“I'm not going to hurt you!” Kyndoril told him over the screams. “I am not one of these cultists! I wish to help!”

The Argonian did not believe him and tried to wriggle off the other side of the altar. In exasperation, Kyndoril dropped the dagger and discarded the robe Harrow had given him, leaving himself just as naked, vulnerable, and embarrassed as the now-confused Argonian. Well, at least he'd stopped trying to escape.

“Stendarr's horn. I'm not one of them. I'm not going to hurt you,” Kyndoril repeated. “I am a _priest_. I only put on the robe so they'd let me in without suspecting me.”

“Oh.... My scales are dry....”

“It's all right. There's a lake outside. You'll be fine once we get you out of here.”

The Argonian did not have spines or feathers to manipulate, but the visibility of more teeth suggested that he'd said something stupid. So he quietly, carefully cut away the bindings.

“There. You're free. I suggest _not_ running that way,” Kyndoril gestured at the balcony to his left. “Two of my companions are in there and it's best you don't mistake each other for Dagonites.”

“You say you're a priest?”

Kyndoril thought of his position. His ring. How he had faced so many perils in Cyrodiil and come out alive, though perhaps with a few scars, and an elven lifetime of nightmares. How through it all, surely the Dragon had been with him. “The fangs and flames and scales of Akatosh protect me, and I serve him.”

The Argonian gave him a long stare. “I can tell you mean Auri-El. But close enough. I am Jeelius, and I am the priest of the Temple of the One.”

Kyndoril had no idea what that meant, and waited for an explanation. Jeelius seemed to take that as a sign of distrust.

“Yes, I know the unfortunate history of elves and the Alessians. But I can assure you that Akatosh raises the crest of love to all.”

Oh, yes. That Temple of the One. But, the topic dragged his attention swiftly back to where they were standing, and why. And as Kyndoril expected, Jeelius was less than happy to hear that the Amulet of Kings had been whisked away by Mankar Camoran. The Empire _needed_ that in order to light the Dragonfires and seal Oblivion.

But how were they to pursue Mankar Camoran?

As if she had heard the call of a challenge, the Stormfang returned, human once more, with Brenor in tow. And she identified what he and Jeelius had both failed to notice in their naked chatter beneath Dagon's statue. It sat heavily on a lectern before the altar, its pale cover and a single daedric _oht_ emblazoned on the front. The Mysterium Xarxes.

–

Kyndoril had expected any number of scenarios to occur after the entire ordeal at the shrine.

He had feared that his belongings would be gone, but they were still stashed away where the unfortunate Harrow had hidden them. Kyndoril had never been so happy to don his mithril coat and robe.

He worried for a brief while that Ohmonir would have fled all the way to Cheydinhal and rallied the guard against him and... the two who deigned to allow him to follow them, because honestly, there was no reason for anyone to suspect they needed him. Ohmonir was not waiting with the guard. He had not even managed to produce his own kinlord to exact vengeance for escaping his game. As far as Kyndoril could tell, Ohmonir had disappeared, leaving not even a red hair behind.

He'd also expected the Mages Guild to reject their request to open a portal for them. While they could not simply drop them in the Cloud Ruler Temple the Stormfang insisted they visit, for Talos had banned that practice within the grounds, they could send them to the guild in Bruma. As for Jeelius, he would lie low and then wait to be sent to the Imperial City.

What neither he, nor the others had considered, was the fact that they would whisked into a closed guild hall in the dead of night. Which led to creeping out, hoping nobody mistook them for vampires, and finding shelter.

Bruma, of course, had long been a Nord city nestled in the Jerall Mountains. And the Jerall Mountains, of course, had long been cold. Early snow had already started to fall.

Kyndoril tried not to be caught staring. While most assumed the Summerset Isles to be hot year-round, the great isle itself boasted the snow-capped Eton Nir, its city of Cloudrest, and the closest point in the isles to the heavens. It was the coldest spot in the isles, surpassing the shade of the craggy mountain cities further south. Suffice to say, Altmer knew what snow was, and they generally had hundreds of years to see it with their own eyes without ever visiting Tamriel.

Still, that did not ease the chill of Bruma. And there came a point where Kyndoril's tolerance waned and he whispered, “Why not try the chapel?”

“First of all, that chapel's dedicated to Talos,” said the Stormfang. “Second, Sheor take him, I'm not sleeping there.”

“I understand. My mother opposed him during the Tiber Wars. But think of us too. Think of poor Brenor.”

“Bah. I'd rather lose my fingers,” Brenor said. “Come on, there's got to be an inn somewhere.”

And of course there was. It merely took finding a nightwatch, nearly being accused of vagrancy, and asking for directions to get there. And once more, Kyndoril found himself crammed into a room with them. A smaller room. But, at least, it was warm.

–

The Void stretched around him again, a field of endless stars, and an uneasy peace.

A Snake perched on his chest.

“Hearken, child! I bring warning! Beware the–”

Before Kyndoril could think, he'd screamed, grabbed the Snake, and hurled it far, far away. And despite the distance, the little beast could still be heard crying, “Why? Oh, why does this keep happening to me?”

A mistake had been made. Whatever Aedra he'd just flung, he hoped that they would still have the patience to speak to him when they returned. If they cared to return at all. And the awareness that he'd somehow been rude to the gods remained when he awoke.

–

By the time they left the inn, Kyndoril had grown to hate the cold. The Stormfang claimed to be 'just fine', and Brenor dressed himself in thicker clothing, but Kyndoril was left to scurry to a tailor and request 'a cloak, please, for the love of Stuhn'. The Nord behind the counter gruffly told him that he worshiped Stendarr like everyone else, but felt charitable enough to grant a discount. And Kyndoril ventured forth in the best tattered wolf skin that a handful of septims could buy.

As they marched north, the Stormfang appraised his purchase, then announced, “This looks like a sabre cat chewed on it.”

“A what?”

“Sabre cat. You know. Huge angry cat. Big teeth. Likes to ambush people.”

“Ah, so it's like a senche.”

“No no no!” Brenor exclaimed. “A senche is one kind of Khajiit. Surely you're referring to... maybe tigers? You know, 'tigers-like-senche'? Or 'lions-like-senche'?”

“Giant cats and not Khajiit, yes. You know about those, then?”

“Why wouldn't I? 'Be careful around tigers,' my grandmother used to tell me. 'The real tigers will eat you as soon as look at you, but the ones that are cat-men will go get their friends.'”

“That's... interesting, but you do know that Khajiit aren't actually cannibalistic barbarians.”

Again, his tongue was quicker than his brain. But Brenor didn't seem to care. And Kyndoril set to the task of silently reprimanding himself for assuming Brenor _actually_ ate people, and then again for forgetting that the Green Pact sometimes demanded such things, and then again for forgetting that not all Bosmer adhered so strictly to the Green Pact.

Best not to say anything, he thought, sweating through his linens.

And Brenor only shrugged. “Grandmother never got the message.”

“But speaking of actual cats,” said the Stormfang. “Try not to panic if you see a mountain lion. They like the pine trees up here, but they usually don't attack groups of people unless they're challenged or desperate.”

–

As they approached the imposing fortress that was Cloud Ruler Temple, the Stormfang offered some history.

“After the rise of Reman Cyrodiil, the Dragonguard took to building these forts in the mountains. Cloud Ruler Temple was built in the Jeralls, as a waypoint for the Emperor traveling between Cyrodiil and Skyrim, a training ground for the Dragonguard, and a castle.

“They didn't just build in the Jeralls. After Reman decided that the western Reach was part of High Rock and the eastern Reach belonged to Skyrim, they built another castle, right into the Karthspire itself. Why they picked there is beyond me.”

“Do you suppose the Orsimer have found Akaviri castles in Wrothgar?” Kyndoril asked her.

“Maybe, but I wouldn't know about that. I just know what the wyresses and the Blades told me.”

Said Blades had not been expecting them. As they passed under the gate and began to climb the steps up into the courtyard, calls rang out, and a pair of men in layered steel plate hurried to meet them.

“We're here to see the Emperor,” said the Stormfang.

What? Had she really said...?

“Baurus should be expecting me. It's urgent.”

The Blades glanced over her and Brenor, and Kyndoril felt their suspicion as they moved to him.

“And who is the High Elf?”

“I'm the High Kinlord of Luxurene. I've already served the Emperor.” He considered his words, then decided not to care. “And he knows me.”

And that is how a so-bold-that-it-had-to-be-innocent, veiled admission of having slept with the Septim heir got him into Cloud Ruler Temple. But all the flippancy and audacity his mother had taught him could not prepare him for the reunion.

At a dining table just inside the great hall, Martin sat surrounded by books, immersed in study. He still wore the humble black of a priest. The Stormfang and Brenor nearly missed him, and were caught off guard when their escort led them to him and announced their arrival.

While the Stormfang and Brenor looked upon Martin and became a pair of flustered, kneeling subjects, Kyndoril locked eyes with the future Emperor of all Tamriel. Martin stared back, stunned. Then looked from him, to the Stormfang and Brenor, and back. In his nerves, Kyndoril managed to smile, then supposed he should bow and greet him properly.

But what came out instead was, “Well? Say something, you Alessian bag of dragon sphincters.”

Martin said enough just in time to stop the Blades from throwing him bodily outside and into the snow.

–

The Snake did return. And Kyndoril, seeing it on his chest, took firm control of his urge to throw it away again. That did not stop him from placing a hand in front of his own neck and face while he yelped an apology.

“I'm sorry! Whoever you are! It's just that... look, I was frightened!”

The small god cocked its head. “There is no form I can take that would not intimidate the mortal heart. For too long, I have been the Pariah among gods. I am the beaten cat who must live by deceit, and guides other strays across Tamriel. I give hope to the smaller, weaker mortals and to the outcast mer who did not abandon me or deny my defeat. To the men of the north, I am death. To less cowardly humans, I am the guardian of the dead.

“And you, of course, would call me Trinimac.”

Kyndoril had made the connection as soon as the Snake had called himself the Pariah. He knew enough of the controversies surrounding the god's history. But, to hear confirmation that it was in fact Trinimac....

“Forgive me for not recognizing you. You bought Tamriel an age of safety before the return of Man, and I owe you my strength.”

“Your might does not simply come from me, child. The hearts of mortalkind are strong. Mara and Stendarr guide your heart, and Y'ffre gives you your form. I merely lend assistance and courage.”

“While I don't presume to know better than the Aedra, that is no small part. Were it not for you, I might not be here. And yet... if you will allow a question....”

“I will permit it.”

“Why are you a Snake?”

“Men, knowing death, became fearful and resentful. And death does not always give warning. If death is not glorious, then it is undeserved, and its bringer was dishonorable and lowly. The Hawk carries the souls of all to their chosen reward. But it is the cowardly Snake that makes corpses of Men who did not have the chance to die well.”

Kyndoril stared at this Snake, and wondered why that would matter to him.

“Hence my confusion. I fear my moment of death, as even mer do, but I am no Nord. Why come to me as Orkey when you could look like Trinimac, or even Malacath?”

“'Why' indeed. Now, before I go, has it happened yet?”

A prickle of foreboding settled over him. “Has what happened?”

“No? Then I must deliver my warning. The king stirs again. His shadow falls over the mountains to the west. If you are caught beneath it, you will not escape.”

“Isn't that a bit cryptic?”

The Snake laughed. “Ha! Cryptic! I'll have to remember that one!”

Kyndoril bit his lip. “Please clarify. What king? Is it Silabaene? Have I been followed?”

“He is a great foe, a dangerous....”

Of course. He'd been so preoccupied with current politics and treachery, he'd nearly forgotten. “Umaril?”

The Snake and his voice faded away with the rest of the Void. And Kyndoril tried to cling to sleep, willing whatever dream had just occurred to return, but he was called to more mundane nightmares. Namely, the nightmare of being among the best scholars and the sapiarchs of Summerset, naked, his Tower on display for all to see.


	17. Mysteries of Past Eras

By morning, it was once again cold, and Kyndoril was loathe to emerge from the comfort and sanctuary of a proper bed. Unfortunately, even as a high kinlord, he was not entitled to spend the day sleeping. Not in Cyrodiil, not as a guest of the Emperor, and not even as a lord on his own island.

Besides, there was little point in remaining in bed when Martin had already risen with the sun and gone to study, taking his body heat with him. Kyndoril dressed himself and prepared for an awkward morning of scavenging food around the castle and avoiding the attention of the Blades, lest they think themselves worthy to judge how he'd spent his night.

Once he'd taken some bread and cheese, he found Martin in the great hall, bent over his books. Upon noting its size, its contents, and the creepy air emanating from the pages, Kyndoril recognized this one as the Mysterium Xarxes, which a nervous Reach witch had delivered the previous day.

“Careful, friend!” Martin said, as he leaned in for a better look. “This thing is dangerous. Unholy.”

Kyndoril smiled. “I beg your pardon, but for some reason – and I'm sure it doesn't have to do with Xarxes being an _elven_ god – I am troubled that you consider them evil.”

“I know you're joking. But, would you please remind an insufferable Alessian robe of Xarxes' importance?”

“Xarxes is the scribe to Auri-El. The keeper of ancient knowledge and history.”

“Then I remembered correctly.... And this supports a troubling possibility. No, Xarxes is not our problem. Mehrunes Dagon and this Mankar Camoran have profaned his name for their own purpose.”

Kyndoril took the chair across from him, bit into his bread, and asked him to explain.

“As much as we humans want to deny it, the elven accountings of the Dawn are just as important to our understanding of Nirn, of the Mundus, and the Aurbis itself. To acknowledge Xarxes as the scribe of our shared Dragon God is to admit the likelihood that he also recorded the events of the Dawn, as witnessed by the Divines themselves.

“And what I'm looking at is... not exactly that. Scribes may record with honesty, to the best of their ability. And just as mortals may ignore or embellish history, so has the creator of _this_ tome taken Xarxes' work and presented it for his own benefit.

“If I'm right, this describes the creation of Nirn, with extra attention to Dagon's hand in destroying and renewing the earth. It speaks of the first defeat of Lorkhan, and how the Adamantine Tower became the lock of Lorkhan's earthly prison.” Martin leaned over the book again and frowned. “Were anything to happen to the Tower, nothing would stop Lorkhan from returning at his full strength....”

Martin, Kyndoril thought, seemed unhappy with the idea. “And would the human Empire not consider that a good thing?”

“I won't pretend that Men and Mer are done fighting for eternity,” Martin said. “But I do not want to imagine what Lorkhan would think of humanity now, when we worship the Dragon who defeated him, even as we embody what he and his champions have desired for Tamriel. And the Mysterium Xarxes is even more worrying. It promises the power to make and unmake. To reshape Nirn, as Nirn was shaped in the violence of the Dawn. And... more. When Raghnailt presented this to me–”

“Wait, who?”

“The woman who arrived with you. She told me that Mankar Camoran had escaped to 'Paradise'. And not only does this tome resonate Dagon's power, but I'm certain that it is one end of Mankar's portal between that Paradise and Nirn.”

Kyndoril looked at the Mysterium Xarxes, innocent and daedric on the table between them. “Then let us be rid of it. All we need is fire, and Mankar Camoran cannot return from his Paradise.”

“That would only break our one known connection to him,” said Martin. “And besides, I don't think that Mehrunes Dagon, lord of a realm that is perpetually on fire, would create a flammable book.”

“We could bury it. Though I doubt a foot of dirt would stop his return.”

“Your eagerness is charming, but we still need to retrieve the Amulet of Kings. Only then will Mankar's plot be undone and Nirn safe from Dagon again.”

“Seems a bit much to ask of the new Emperor.”

“I'm not even the Emperor yet. And, Julianos help me, I still have a lot of reading to do if I'm even going to guess how to tear open a new portal.”

–

Life in Cloud Ruler Temple treated him well. There was plenty to eat and read, the northern air refreshed him, and the training yard had plenty of room to let him stay in good form. Nights were happy and relaxed. Only the awareness of neglected responsibility dragged his mind out of contentment. Martin busied himself by day to reach Mankar Camoran and bring an end to the Oblivion Crisis. But he? He had done little but amuse himself while the forces of Oblivion did Aedra-only-knew to the people of the Summerset Isles.

As Frostfall dragged on, Kyndoril made more time to seek privacy and offer prayers to the gods and ancestors.

His father, vague and choosing not to manifest in visible form, had suggested rolling up his sleeves, strolling into Oblivion, and confronting Mehrunes Dagon and the source of his gates directly. Definitely not the quiet and dignified mer he remembered, but he was probably not that mer's son anyway.

His father's father seemed afraid of him, and would not identify himself, nor would his grandmother. There was no point in contacting his mother's parents; they'd disapproved of her in life and would not have kind words for her children either.

His own mother did have a late wife, but something about asking 'Cat-Mum' for help made him fear that he would just be a bothersome son.

The Aedra rarely spoke directly to mortals. But he took comfort in offering his prayers, and wished there had been more he could have done.

One morning, the tedium of rest and prayer ended. Martin finally reached whatever conclusion he'd been searching for. This, Kyndoril learned when he arrived late as usual and took his seat, only for Martin to ask one of the guards to go find Raghnailt and Brenor.

“My friends,” Martin began, “I realize that you've already given much. But... I may need your selfless courage again. I've translated more of the Mysterium Xarxes. We _can_ open a way to Mankar Camoran's Paradise. But we're going to need a few things first.”

“And you want us to fetch them,” said Raghnailt.

“You've all been reliable. The Blades are capable, but I do not see anyone else I can turn to.”

Raghnailt shrugged. “Okay. What do you need?”

“The first item I need to open a portal is an object created from the essence of a Daedric lord. Obviously we have the Mysterium Xarxes, but I dare not use it, lest it vanish for unknown time and seal away the Amulet of Kings with it.”

“Hold on,” said Raghnailt, suddenly hopeful. “Any Daedric lord? Any at all?”

“Yes. The spell isn't that choosy, and....”

“Brenor, be a dear?”

Brenor hurried off in the direction of the barracks.

“Ah. This is... convenient,” said Martin. “Many adventurers seek the favor of Oblivion, as it grants them power. I... once stumbled across Sanguine's Rose. As a foolish youth. And put it behind me quickly, I'll have you know,” he added, with a glance at Kyndoril.

Kyndoril smiled. “You know, if you want a holier source of inspiration, Y'ffre's realm includes matters of–”

“Y'ffre worship is considered pagan and you know it.”

“What I don't understand is why humans need an entire Divine just for–”

He was interrupted again by Brenor calling, “I've got it!”

Brenor presented something oblong, wide at one end, and wrapped in thick cloth to Raghnailt. And without any prelude, she pulled away the covering. Kyndoril felt his blood freeze as the Stormfang set a great, rusted ebony mace onto the wooden table.

Martin had gone quite pale. “How,” he said, voice up an octave, “did you get _that?_ ”

“I gave Molag Bal the arm of honor and made off with it, ages ago. Brenor and I have taken turns hauling the damn thing ever since I got out of jail, 'cause we didn't have a safe place to get rid of it.”

“You have done all of mortalkind a service,” said Martin. “Now please cover that up.”

When the Mace of Molag Bal had been hidden from their mortal eyes and hearts again, Kyndoril asked, “What's next? Aedra blood?”

“Going to volunteer, my elven friend?”

Kyndoril was appalled. “Absolutely not. No mortal, not even the highest of Aldmeris, consider themselves Aedra. That would be arrogance. Blasphemy.”

“How does that work with Talos?” Brenor asked.

“Talos is a rare and grand exception that has been very convincingly suggested to us by our good friends and allies in Cyrodiil. Despite the rumors, we consider ourselves lucky to have the obligation of serving our just and heroic conqueror, who defies the very precepts of the Mundus, nay, the Aurbis itself, and–”

Martin cleared his throat. “As your future human overlord, I am open to abolishing certain parts of the Talosian Doctrines of the Year 38 of the Third Era. But I cannot do that as a mere priest. We need the Amulet of Kings, and Jauffre knows where we may find the blood of an Aedra. The blood of Tiber Septim himself.”

Kyndoril stared. “Most people don't keep blood lying around.”

“No. But Tiber Septim was not invincible, and Jauffre believes that his armor still bears his blood. If we could retrieve that, I would be able to use it to bring us closer to Mankar Camoran.”

“Are you sure your own blood wouldn't do the trick? You are his heir.”

“You are not Auri-El, and I am not Talos.”

“Fair enough. And where is the armor?”

–

The armor of Tiber Septim was exactly where Kyndoril had guessed it would be: in a place excessively inconvenient to the one who had to venture out to fetch it. He volunteered out of both morbid curiosity and a sense of mischief.

Sancre Tor was, as the name suggested, sacred. It had been a resting place of Emperors and their faithful bodyguards for thousands of years. It had been the scene of a great betrayal, in which Tiber Septim had turned human forces against each other for his own benefit – one of his earliest victories in his conquest of Tamriel. That history and Sancre Tor's long-standing status as a site of pilgrimage for Cyrodiil made it the perfect place to enshrine his armor.

To enter such a place felt disrespectful, and Kyndoril could think of no greater satisfaction than intruding on it. Of course, human tombs were not elven tombs, and did not have elven rules.

Holy site that it was, it was somewhere far to the west of Cloud Ruler Temple. This time, Kyndoril accepted the horse that the Blades offered him. It had once belonged to one Prior Maborel, they told him. The dead did not need a horse. And he felt shaken. He _knew_ the name, but two days of travel would pass before he remembered where he'd heard it.

And as he took in the pines and deepening snow of the Jeralls on that late Frostfall morning, he tried to remember Maborel's face, and if he'd even had the chance to meet them before leaving for Kvatch.

Weynon Priory was a fuzzy memory. And Kyndoril wished that he'd slept better in the night. And that he'd risen earlier. And perhaps packed more substantial provisions....

A sound like a thunderclap jolted him awake, and he glanced around at the skies. There was no sign of a fall storm....

The thunder came again, louder this time, with a sharp, unyielding sensation of violent magicka in the air. And Kyndoril urged the horse into a run, until the sound and the presence were gone.


	18. Legacy of the Septims

Though his mind anticipated an ambush in the dark hills, he was able to sleep soundly that night, and awoke finding his person, his belongings, and Maborel's horse safe and where he had left them.

Only one thing bothered him. He could have sworn that he'd had a strange dream. A brief dream, consisting of just one sentence.

“Never mind.”

It bothered him. And it would be years before he connected the voice to the memory of a Snake that had haunted his sleep twice before.

The next day passed not with startling magical thunder, but with light snow from the north, and a cold wind that inspired him to seek interesting, creative ways to protect his hands, while holding the reins, without gloves. In the end, he settled for breathing on them and trying to drape his cloak over them.

Eventually, as Magnus began to set, Kyndoril came upon hewn stone poking out of the earth. He'd expected something more than a weathered hill fort. Something grander than the ruins of Fort Ash. For an ancient site of pilgrimage, he had expected dwellings, shrines, _people_. Unease crept in as he cast a light and searched for the entrance to the catacombs themselves.

But the door was shut to him, and an inscription, surely hundreds of years old, read: “Sealed by authority of the Grandmaster of the Blades, 36th Year of the Reign of Tiber Septim.”

Quietly, Kyndoril cursed Jauffre for failing to tell him this and not even providing him with the key. And he came to the obvious conclusion. If _Cyrodiil_ , of all human kingdoms, had the good sense to seal a tomb, then something was very wrong inside. That something probably had to do with the dead not staying dead.

And so Kyndoril left the lock alone and led his horse companion off to make camp behind a wall. Somewhere sheltered from the northern wind and away from the door of imprisoned bad things.

–

Kyndoril gave Maborel's horse one last pat in the morning.

“Horse, you are a brave and good creature. I ask you to be brave a little longer while I go into this accursed hill tomb and fetch the impostor god's armor. I will still need your help when I return.”

The horse blinked.

“Thank you, friend. Should something happen to me, tell Martin I love him.”

And with that, he told himself to stop petting the horse's soft nose, turned, and approached the tower that held the true entrance to Sancre Tor.

“I am not going to be hindered by some rusty, four-hundred-year-old lock,” Kyndoril muttered, casting his spell. And to his surprise, that was all it took. Sancre Tor was unsealed. And he drew his sword and descended into the ruins of the fortress.

He knew better than to barge loudly into the halls of the dead. Ears alert for any sound, he tread softly, carefully through the musty passage. But it was not long before he lacked for light. How would he regain vision without alerting the restless dead, he wondered.

Perhaps, if a muffling spell could be applied to the feet, a spell of light could be cast upon the eyes?

Only one second after casting, he nearly dropped his sword in agony and pressed his sleeve to his face, certain that he would never see again.

Gods!, he cursed. Ancestors, help me....

What he did not expect was an answer. One that came in a familiar voice, that he could not place.

_Is this your first time attempting to cast a spell of night-eye?_

The burning waned and his vision regained its clarity, but with a tinge of blue. Before he could give his thanks, the voice spoke again.

_Do not call upon light itself. Your eyes must use what they have. That is the essence of this magic._

Kyndoril supposed that simpler light spells remained popular for fear of burning one's own pupils. He tried again to thank the voice and ask for a name, but no answer came to him. He moved on.

Ahead stood a sight which he had not seen since he had taken the hard way out of the Imperial City prison. A _skeleton_ stood upright, guarding the hall without the help of tendons or muscles or anything that a reasonable living creature needed for bones to be of use. It carried the round shield and long thin sword of the Blades. And... its spine was turned to him.

Kyndoril watched another minute, considering his approach, grateful that he'd had the fortune to find a skeleton and not something of more vague and unknowable temperament. A ghost would have been hard to guess. But rarely was there good intent in reanimated skeleton. And as he crept forward, hands tightening around the hilt of his silver sword, he hoped that this doomed skeleton was just one of the mindless ones that would not take insult or feel even a moment of fear when struck down.

As it turned out, skeletons really were weak without the support of the rest of a mortal body. The bones collapsed, some breaking into shards and dust, sword and shield clattering where they fell.

And _then_ a ghost appeared. And unlike the skeleton, it had ghostly flesh protected by a full suit of ghostly Akaviri armor. And it was completely aware of his presence.

Before Kyndoril could raise his sword, or, in case the ghost happened to be capable of civility, offer an apology for attacking, it spoke.

“Do not fear, elf. I am Rielus, loyal Blade of the Emperor Tiber Septim. How long have I been dead?”

“You'll need to help me with that one,” said Kyndoril. “When did you die?”

“In the thirty-sixth year of the Emperor's rule, we learned of a disturbance here. I was here to investigate with my comrades.... The Underking captured us, and here we are bound.”

“Well... it's been nearly four-hundred years. And... did you say the Underking?”

“Why are you wasting time with questions? I must sleep....”

“Then I will not keep you from Aetherius. You are free now. Please, go and be at peace.”

Instead of vanishing, the ghost turned and began to walk. “I must cleanse the shrine so I may sleep....”

Oh, to be a spirit bound to serve the living. What suffering the dead of Tamriel endured. Such things were not done in the Summerset Isles, where all good and decent people respected Auri-El's wish that the dead should freely follow him to Aetherius, returning only of their own will.

But more importantly, the Underking? The image of an Imperial necromancer his mother had despised came to mind....

One day, I will go home, Kyndoril promised himself. And I will have nothing more to do with liches or cultists or any more of Lorkhan's guises.

The ghost led him through a sprawling circular chamber, with balconies spanning the wall, a yawning maw with a pool of water below, halls leading off in every direction, and massive stone columns supporting a high ceiling. It was hard to tell through the mist hanging in the air, but it seemed some monster of a spider had built a web that size of a small house on the ceiling. And the chamber was illuminated in part by blinding blue-white lights on carved stone outcroppings.

The ghost proceeded straight ahead, down a steep flight of steps, then another, closer to the level of the water, and passed through a solid door. When Kyndoril followed, he saw that the ghost had come to a stop before what could only be described as a fog of malevolence. Now came the moment had he crossed the hills for. He waited for the cleansing of the shrine to commence, and prepared himself to deal with the armor of Tiber Septim.

But nothing happened.

“Rielus, are you... in need of any assistance? I'm not entirely incompetent in matters of prayer and magic.”

“Find my comrades. They will be able to help me break this curse.”

“Very well. But... are they the only undead who dwell here?”

“No.”

“Are they all skeletons, or...?”

“No.”

“Then what should I expect to face?”

“Is that a silver blade in your hand?”

“It is....”

“Then you may yet survive this place.”

That was neither helpful nor reassuring. And Kyndoril decided to move on before he lost all remaining willpower and fled.

–

In the depths of Sancre Tor, Kyndoril discovered a strange advantage. His magical sight, combined with muffled feet, made him all but invisible to the dead, whose hearing, vision, and sense that someone lurked nearby were no better than that of a typical living mortal. Though many restless spirits, twisted as they were, drifted through the air as murderous fog, snatching and clawing at the space before them, they could not catch what they could not find. And he could see them long before they got near enough to notice his presence.

And so began the game he had grown to hate. A game of hiding in the shadows, darting to the next safe alcove as soon as a back had turned. A game of creeping on light feet, having to take his eye off one danger to scan his surroundings for anything else that might notice him. It was in this manner that he managed to slip past a number of dead, hearing only one spine-chilling hiss of suspicion that the sanctity of the fortress had been breached. That ghost swept by his hiding spot, arms twisting and clutching through the air, and disappeared around some corner. He had recovered quickly, with only some small surprise that he had not ruined his trousers, and hurried onward.

As he took note of another ghost's favorite ground, another truth dawned on him. Even the floating dead preferred to stick to paths and heights at which their physical counterparts _walked_. And that, combined with his height, made his crawl through Sancre Tor easier. Why stay on the floor in places where he could get a foothold on a wall or a bit of rubble and pull himself to another level, where the dead could not reach?

As long as he didn't fall – and he remembered that painful drop beneath the Imperial City with a wince – he'd be fine.

This, however, let to a new complication – dealing with the skeletal remains of the Blades when he finally found them. Once he'd given away his position to the second Blade with a misplaced fireball, it turned and raised its shield against the rest of his magic.

Kyndoril exhausted his magicka in just one minute of this. And he threw the only ranged weapon he had left – his frustrations. Which he yelled from his perch.

“First of all, you shouldn't even be able to hold that with your rotted little arms!”

The undead Blade did not have a reason to care about how he felt. It stood there, threatening with its sword and shield. And Kyndoril knew the confrontation would continue until the Blade gave up on haunting him (which was not going to happen if the enthralled dead had nothing better to do) or he climbed down to meet it in close combat.

“You're not even supposed to be undead anymore,” Kyndoril said. “The necromancer who reanimated you is no more. You can stop now.”

No reaction, of course.

“You know, I don't see why you bother with him. It was Zurin Arctus wasn't it? Listen, he's just using you. He doesn't even like you. It's time to cut him out of your life. Well. Death. He's dead too. Actually dead. What is he going to care?”

Perhaps the skeleton was wise not to trust the advice of someone who'd just tried to kill it with a barrage of fireballs. Kyndoril did not blame it, but he did need to get on with getting to the armor if he was going to leave at all.

“I don't even know why I should have to do this. Zurin is long dead and his power should have waned by now.”

Maybe, just maybe, the soul of the Blade trapped within the skeleton could have some sense prayed into it.

It didn't work.

But it distracted the creature long enough for him to prepare a better, more well-aimed fireball.

And so his journey through Sancre Tor went on. The longer he crept, the more it seemed Sancre Tor had never been a proper resting place for anyone but a select few Remans, whose graves surely rested behind Zurin's wards. Or if there were graves, they were lost to collapsed passages.

Sancre Tor itself seemed to be more fortress than tomb. A brutal sort of fortress, judging by the throne overlooking a pit, the old bloodstains, the implements of torture and execution, and many, many prison cells. Countless had certainly _died_ in Sancre Tor. And countless spirits lurked in the halls.

And Kyndoril caught himself wondering if perhaps the enthralled Blades deserved their time as skeletons. Had they once been keepers of Sancre Tor? Had they participated in the cruelties of the Empire, in that dark hole? How much had taken place there in the lifetime of Tiber Septim, before the tomb needed to be sealed off?

Those thoughts, which he would come back to in the nights to come, did not serve him. They were a distraction from the movements ahead, the ghosts that he preferred to avoid, the more physical undead that he hoped to ambush.

Besides, a kinlord could not judge someone by association alone.... Even if they associated with terrible people and deserved to be shamed for years, that did not necessarily determine their deeds. Or so he told himself, as he focused more intently on not blundering into the dead.

There was little else to note of the place. He crept where he could and struck down the risen dead when they could not be avoided. The darkness and cold gnawed at his patience and peace of mind until at last, with four spirits freed, Zurin Arctus' barriers fell. Of course, there was no Zurin Arctus to fight, as the man had died long ago and not been heard from in quite a while. All that remained was picking up the armor of Tiber Septim, fastening it to his things, and bearing it out into the blessed warmth of Magnus once again.

The blessed light of Magnus burned his poor eyes. He'd forgotten to dispel his mysterious ancestor's gift.


	19. The Heart of Love

As the radiance of Magnus drifted further still to the south and Sun's Dusk fell upon Tamriel, Kyndoril returned, weary yet happy, to the sanctuary of Cloud Ruler Temple. Maborel's loyal horse abandoned him for the comfort and food of the stable. And he dragged himself into the keep's great hall.

Jauffre and Martin were pleased that he'd returned alive and with the armor, but there were the questions.

“How did you get in?” Jauffre asked. “I forgot to give you the key!”

“Scary elf magic.”

“What do you mean 'scary elf magic'?”

“I used a simple unlocking spell.”

“That's not remotely frightening.”

Kyndoril withheld the retort he wanted to snarl and turned to Martin. “Please, the journey was long and I need a rest.”

“Did something happen?”

They did not get anything else out of him until he'd sat down and had a good meal. Jauffre was relieved to hear that the magic of Zurin Arctus was no longer a threat and that the cursed Blades had passed on to Aetherius. But he did not imagine it would return to prominence as a site of pilgrimage. The righteous had found other ways to pay their respects for four-hundred years, after all.

But they had their Talos blood. And that was what mattered. As for what came next....

“Raghnailt and Brenor have already brought the third key,” Martin told him.

“The woman has a nose for artifacts, doesn't she?” Kyndoril asked. “What was it this time?”

“A great welkynd stone. I'm amazed that they found it so quickly.”

“Yes, they do seem quite good at fetching things.”

Martin gave him a tired look. “Indeed.”

“So are they still around, or are they sniffing out another key to Mankar's realm?”

And Martin looked up at Jauffre. “No. The fourth key eludes me. But... there is a matter of more immediate concern. And they have graciously volunteered themselves for action.”

Kyndoril ignored the urge to sigh that he was done with all important things and retiring for the night. “What's happened.”

“The Mythic Dawn is not satisfied with stealing the Amulet of Kings. They know that as long as a Septim lives, Dagon's invasion of Nirn may fail. But, evil is overly fond of leaving notes behind. And now we know that the Mythic Dawn plans to attack Bruma. I... cannot allow what happened at Kvatch to unfold again.”

The ruined city flashed in his mind. Houses reduced to charcoal and ash. Broken stone. Daedra picking through rubble and remains.... Martin's voice brought him back to Cloud Ruler Temple.

“I've asked the Blades to go and seek reinforcements from the rest of Cyrodiil. And Raghnailt said she knew a way to move them quickly, before the Mythic Dawn can react.”

“And how, by Auri-El's scales, did she propose to pull that feat?”

“It was... strange,” said Martin. “You see, your decision to disregard the church and ask the Mages Guild to send you to Kvatch was well-timed. And the timing of my arrival in Chorrol was also fortunate. So I thought to suggest this to Raghnailt....”

“That is how we got here from Cheydinhal, but you say that like she refused....”

“Yes. She said there was no time to waste, grabbed Brenor, and then... she took out a large silver ring. Brenor was afraid. He asked her if it would hurt, but she shoved the ring over her glove and they vanished.”

For once, his brain held his tongue fast. There was absolutely no need to point out to a bunch of Alessian fanatics the reason _why_ someone would fear pain from silver.

“So far we've had word of reinforcements from Chorrol,” Jauffre said. “From the sound of it, the girl dumped them all on Countess Carvain's doorstep and disappeared again.”

And this was where his attention began to wane. He listened a bit longer, while Jauffre made some estimate of when a decent fighting force would be ready.... How long they would then have to prepare....

Kyndoril was not aware that he'd begun to prop his head up on his hand until he found it muffling his tired voice. “Sounds... fascinating.... But what if we just... figure out this portal thingy first, get the blood, and get Akatosh's scaly arse back on our side before Bruma happens....”

Martin and Jauffre, having finally realized that exhausted elves were just as ridiculous as exhausted humans, shooed him out of the great hall to rest.

–

Kyndoril, despite his exile to the haven of blankets and pillows, knew that his idea was a good one, even if he had not articulated it as would be expected of a mer of his station.

As sleep came for him, he turned over the clues he'd been given. The things that Martin had already collected. The blood of a Daedric Prince. The blood of an Imperial Divine. Certainly not an Aedra. Talos was only a man. Sort of.

The third item. A large welkynd stone. Welkynd stones weren't particularly special. They were just large crystals cut out of larger crystals taken from deposits in the earth....

A blue rock. An old mace. As his tired mind tried to fit the keys to a pattern, he wondered if Talos using the power of Lorkhan was more of a 'new' or 'borrowed'....

Sleep finally reached him as he whispered one more prayer that Xarxes might grant him insight.

The Void stretched around him. Apprehensive, but relieved, he rubbed his hands and waited for some Aedra to answer his prayer.

The emptiness of the Void was masked by thick clouds of emerald green. And a blinking, staring, seeing mass of _eyes_ and _tentacles_ squirmed into existence from nothingness in front of him.

Kyndoril knew exactly what he faced. He had heard so many stories of cleverness and danger and betrayal and death, all revolving around the thing floating before him. His mind screamed caution. His mind also suggested that he hide and be quiet until the danger passed, as minds are wont to do when faced with such peril.

Instead, he tried to think of the right words to address Hermaeus Mora. And failed.

“ _You_ are not Xarxes.”

“My servant does not need to concern himself with you....”

He bit his tongue; intent or not, it seemed dangerous to tell a Daedric Prince who was and wasn't their servant, in their own domain. If this even was their domain.

“Pray, why have you come to visit me while I sleep? Or have you brought me to your realm? Is this Apocrypha? Or does this... environment follow you where you deign to float?”

“I come because... you are a curious mortal....”

“I'm flattered, Lord Mora. If I may call you that. But I do not think I possess any knowledge you do not already have.”

This did not stop Hermaeus Mora or his many tentacles from moving closer and scrutinizing him.

“Presumptuous mortal.... I need nothing from you.... But you... have much to learn from me....”

Kyndoril wondered what in all Oblivion that could possibly mean, and had to admit that he saw the appeal. But the Daedra did not give anything lightly.

“I am a simple mortal, but your knowledge is a precious thing, and it does not seem that it would be offered for nothing. What toll does a mortal pay for such a glimpse into the unknown?”

“What have you remembered outside this realm of sleep?”

“So... you're saying that you see no reason not to tell me something... if I'm going to forget it when I wake anyway?”

The Daedric Prince did not answer. Perhaps, if he had answered, Kyndoril would have refused to go further, and waited quietly for sleep to end so that he could get on with his already confusing mortal life. Instead, he was left to walk through the Void, between clouds of green, never daring to stray from the cleared trail, or to walk back and hope that the invisible ground still existed, or to muster any magic against the tentacles that loomed on either side.

But was this how Hermaeus Mora ensnared mortals?

“Mara, help me....”

Before he knew what had happened, a large Wolf, golden flowers bursting like stars in its mane, stood on the path before him.

“My child,” said the Wolf. “There is nothing I can give that you do not already carry. But I will walk with you, as I always have.”

That had been too easy, but who was he kidding? Of course Mara would listen!

“Lady Mara. Where are we? Is it safe to go on?”

The Wolf merely began to walk along the path Hermaeus Mora had left him. And rather than be parted from the Aedric Goddess of Compassion, he followed her into the unknown.

“Do not think poorly of dear Xarxes for not coming to your side,” said the Wolf. “At the best of Times, the currents of Existence are difficult to navigate. It is so easy to lose the way and find yourself in Coldharbour when you sought Moonshadow. But Hermaeus Mora... he who would know all that is known, without contributing... he could not resist this chance to be a lord of knowledge.”

As they walked, a yellow light flickered into sight in the mist. The Wolf trotted onward, and Kyndoril chose to trust her judgment. But as the light turned into a long, glowing object, he felt doubts again. And soon, it was obvious what it was. The Wolf sat back on her haunches.

Kyndoril looked at the mist. Then back to their discovery. “A scroll?”

“That is what your heart expects. It is not quite so. When all was made, Xarxes gave their memory to the world. The oldest of deeds and prophecies, events foreseen by myself and my fellows, warnings and blessings of the one who came before us all and made our place within the Nothingness that once was. On Nirn, these are Elder Scrolls. And so, that is what you see here.”

“And Hermaeus Mora wanted me to find this?”

“So he did. But do you trust him?”

“No. I trust you. And I would heed your wisdom long before accepting an Elder Scroll from a Daedric Prince.”

Mara said nothing, but watched the scroll, intent, focused.

“Lady Mara, what should I do?”

“Whether I advise you or not, this decision is yours.”

He started to raise his hand. But as he remembered just who was by his side, and who had left the Elder Scroll for him, and those who waited for him back in the waking world, he folded his arms instead.

“I am young, but I know some things should not be leapt into rashly, especially if one has misgivings. You would not ask mortalkind to feign love for its own sake. And I don't even know why I would want what's in that scroll. Whatever it is.”

“A good answer. But if that Elder Scroll concerned the fate of another, would you be swayed?”

“I can't say for certain. What is their fate? Could it truly be changed for the better? Or would I merely meddle in the events leading up to their fate? How would I know to read the Elder Scroll? How would I interpret it? And, more importantly....”

He lost track of what was so important, with the Wolf grinning at him, mouth open and teeth exposed. And he remembered that he was dealing with a very Atmoran aspect of the god he knew. He grew nervous.

“Lady Mara, I am not equipped to match an Aedra in an exercise of philosophy. Or are you asking me to take the scroll and trying to tell me that it actually concerns someone?”

“I was merely curious. But I am satisfied with your answers. Yes... I think this will work.”

The Wolf, the fog, and the Void faded.

And Kyndoril found himself in bed, an arm numb where he'd fallen asleep on it. He moved his fingers, felt his hand start to burn. And he waited for the memory of the Wolf to leave him.

But it refused.


	20. Whims of the Divines

This event lingered in Kyndoril's mind later. Not just his meeting with a wolf that he knew to be Mara. He knew, with a combination of horror and certainty, that he had met Trinimac and flung him away in shock. He had found comfort in Stendarr. He had been addressed by Auri-El himself. And Lorkhan. Lorkhan had tormented him at least once.

Oblivion take him, his own _mind_ tormented him. He was not sure whether he had experienced these holy visits or if he was finally starting to break from every trauma Cyrodiil inflicted upon his spirit.

There was only one person he trusted to help him work through these doubts. And so, he waited for a quiet moment, when they were away from the prying eyes and ears of the Blades.

“Martin... I think I've seen the gods.”

“Mmm. Thanks.... I enjoyed myself too.”

Well, _that_ had been poorly timed. Kyndoril distracted himself by staring at the folds in the bed sheets, then the wall. When Martin had had a few minutes to emerge from his stupor, Kyndoril tried again.

“I mean, I think I've met them before.... I think they've spoken to me.”

“Ah.... I see.” A few seconds later, Martin raised his head, then rolled over to face him. “Wait, what did you say?”

“I've seen... Shor. Alduin. Stuhn. Orkey. Mara. And Hermaeus Mora. Mara saved me from Hermaeus Mora only a few nights ago.”

“I'm sorry, did you say _Shor and Alduin_?”

“I would call them Lorkhan and Auri-El, but I know my basic Atmoran theology and Lorkhan revealed himself as a fox,” Kyndoril admitted.

Martin shrugged, then gave half a nod. “That is fair. I suppose. And the rest were animals too?”

“All but Hermaeus Mora. Unless a squid is supposed to be so hideous.”

“Why Nord gods, I wonder....”

“I have asked myself the same.”

There was a moment's pause. Then Kyndoril felt a hand brush his ear. “Are there any Nords in your family?”

“I don't think any in my line married outside Summerset before my mothers met. As for my father? I can't say. I doubt Summerset, in its past, would have tolerated any of his ancestors getting so close to a human.”

“Ah. I'm sorry to hear that.”

An uncomfortable silence fell. But as Kyndoril thought of closing his eyes and trying to sleep....

“Does... madness run in your family, by chance?”

Rumors of his mother's adventures popped into his mind. “Most likely, but I do not think any degree or lack of madness has caused this.”

“You haven't seen any clouds of butterflies?”

“Stars, no.”

“That is a relief. They say that madness is some quirk bestowed by Kynareth, and that Sheogorath merely torments the minds she has touched. I am glad he has spared you thus far.”

Kyndoril pulled one of the pillows to his chest. “Martin, when I came to Cyrodiil... when I fled from Anvil... I sought refuge under the Imperial Divines. Of course they were the Aedra. But it was... is treason to elvenkind, in ways I cannot explain, even if I do not feel it in my own heart.

“But now?” he whispered. “Why did I speak to them as beasts? But... are they not also the Divines? Am I somehow unworthy to know the Aedra as I must serve them? Or is there something I've missed, something the gods are trying to tell me?”

Martin thought on this. “I don't think that the gods would speak to you if they found you unworthy of their time. And perhaps there is something to learn from this. Perhaps the gods appear as they wish and care little for our divisions of faith. Besides. Men and elves,” Martin yawned. “Not really so different, once you get past the ears....”

“So spake the wise Emperor of Tamriel on this Fredas of Sun's Dusk....”

“Please. I'm a priest.”

–

Kyndoril was approached by Martin the next morning. And he looked more grim than usual, an unexpected sight after the night they'd shared.

“I think I've deciphered the fourth key,” said Martin. “It was so... impossibly simple. Tell me, Kyndoril. What is the difference between Tiber Septim and Molag Bal?”

“One is revered by those who revel in the horrors of war, and the other is the Lord of Coldharbour.”

Martin's brow wrinkled. “Please, not in front of the Blades.”

“Oh, very well. I think what you wanted me to say is that Tiber Septim is... a Divine...? And Molag Bal is a Daedric Prince. They are... very opposites in.... My lord, please, my elven dignity is already wounded.”

“Fine, moving on. Our third key is a welkynd stone of immense size and power. We seek its counterpart.”

“Ebony,” said Kyndoril. “Welkynd stones are the concentrated power of the heavens, and ebony is the blood shed by Lorkhan as he fought to dominate this world. Lorkhan is of the the Void. So, naturally....”

“Well. You're not entirely wrong. But the texts are more specific. What we're after is the _focused_ _power_ of Oblivion, in a vessel, in the same way a welkynd stone holds the magicka of Aetherius or Nirn. Kyndoril. You have seen such a thing already. You must have, if you closed one of Dagon's gates.”

Kyndoril bit his lip. “A sigil stone? The one I found at Kvatch, I destroyed....”

“And we will have our chance to find another. A... greater one.” Martin hesitated. “I've already discussed this with Jauffre. He believes that we have a chance to thwart the attack on Bruma entirely, to prevent any gate from appearing. But we need the stone on the other side. And if someone could rush in and take the stone, the gate would shut, and we would have our path to Mankar Camoran.”

So, he was willing to let Dagon attack Bruma? No... no, of course not. But it seemed too much of a risk.

“Is there no other gate?” Kyndoril asked.

“Jauffre and I have asked ourselves this very question. There have been reports of many, but none are as predictable as the one that will appear outside of Bruma in the coming days. And when Oblivion strikes... they will find the might of Cyrodiil waiting for them.”

–

The day of the anticipated assault upon Bruma drew nearer.

Raghnailt and Brenor returned, claiming to have inspired legionnaires to join their defense. Then Raghnailt, with a grave look on her already fatigued face, announced that she was going hunting. While the sun began to set. In the middle of a snowstorm.

Kyndoril decided to mind his own business, but changed course the minute he saw Brenor wandering around Cloud Ruler Temple.

“Oh, don't worry, it's not that!” Brenor assured him. “No, Y'ffre has that all under control. She's just after a few souls.”

“I. What. Souls?” Kyndoril sputtered.

“Yes. Souls. We went through quite a lot, gathering those men. We're going to need even more for the Emperor's plan, you see.”

It took Kyndoril a minute for his anxious mind to catch up and realize they were not discussing anything nefarious. “We're talking about soul gems?”

“Oh! Oh, yes.”

“The smaller soul gems that only hold creature souls? Not people?”

“Never people. But Oblivion has probably taken a dozen rabbits this week alone.”

“Of course. Forgive me. I've not slept well.”

“Really? We should have traded jobs.”

“Your friend does seem more adept in combat. If only I had know Sancre Tor would be full of restless dead, I'd have asked her help.”

At this, he heard a small intake of breath, and Kyndoril wondered if he's managed to frighten the poor mer. But when he looked down, Brenor's eyes had widened with excitement.

“ _You_ took on a crypt of undead?”

“Well... it involved a lot more sneaking....”

“How did you do it? What was it like? Please, tell me everything!”


	21. To Dance with Daedra

The day came.

Kyndoril had expected to ride to Bruma alongside Brenor and Raghnailt and whatever force the Blades could spare. Raghnailt had her plan, one that she was sure would see them through Oblivion and out again quickly. Stendarr willing, they would get the great sigil stone and return to Martin alive and whole.

There was just one complication. A Septim true to his ancestors, Martin was anxious to join the battle. Which Kyndoril learned when he found Martin facing the cold dawn, not in his humble priest's garments, but in thick gilded Imperial plate.

“Martin, there's no need for you to follow.”

“Follow? If I am to become Emperor, it's time I started acting as one. I will lead the defense of Bruma.”

“We're facing a daedric army,” Kyndoril reminded him. “And if we lose you, there is no portal to Camoran, there is no Amulet of Kings, and there will be no Emperor! Not unless _you_ have secret bastard children you aren't telling us about. And I do not want to tell another human their father is dead.”

“Well, you'll have no more heirs to break news to, because I am a priest of the Divines, and as such I am sworn to celibacy, remember...?”

“Then may Akatosh have mercy on your soul.”

“Akatosh is with us. If he is willing, then we _will_ survive this. If not... I may die knowing that I have served Tamriel. But the line has been broken before. Whatever happens to me, another Dragonborn will rise. Time will see to that.”

“Martin....”

Martin answered with a heavy pat to his shoulder. “And if Akatosh _isn't_ paying attention, at least we have Mara.”

“Now that's a bit grim to Altmer,” Kyndoril sighed. “Trinimac is usually our next hope. Jumping straight to Mara is hoping that the enemy is feeling too nice to slaughter you. Oh, and promising to remember your friends and family if you survive.”

“Well since Arkay is the god of death, I don't see how that's much better.”

“And who else is there?”

“Well, you'll see....”

Kyndoril knew exactly where his Imperial mind was going, but decided not to press it. Instead, he waited quietly for the rest of their group to assemble. Raghnailt emerged with Brenor, who'd been fitted with a more sturdy suit of leather and mail for the fight ahead. A dozen Blades joined them.

This small band rode from Cloud Ruler Temple to Bruma.

–

Raghnailt had been given the task of fetching Countess Carvain. This arrangement was agreeable; Kyndoril still fretted that his face and crimes were known, and Raghnailt had absolutely no wish to be present in the Chapel of Talos. That left Kyndoril to follow Martin inside, where he faced the stained glass image of the God of Man and shivered.

“Whatever Talos is,” Kyndoril whispered to Martin, “something is disturbed in my heart. As if Lorkhan himself is waiting for something.”

“Let us hope that he is here,” said Martin. He approached the altar. “Talos, Cyrodiil has known centuries of peace. That peace has been marred by Mehrunes Dagon. Grant us your strength for the battle ahead. Guide us through Oblivion that we may reclaim the birthright of kings and put an end to this torment.... Oh, and please stop scaring my friend over there. He is on our side. Really.”

Whether it was due to the prayer or Martin's humor, some of the dread lifted. And so, Kyndoril moved on to Akatosh, and each of the other gods in turn, praying as any Altmeri lord does before imminent disaster: pretending to be serene while hoping nobody notices the sweat.

This was how he passed the minutes before new voices alerted him to the fact that Countess Carvain must have arrived. And as he tried to recall it all later, memories would blur.

He did remember Martin's words to him before they left the chapel.

“Find Raghnailt and Brenor. Stay with them. The great sigil stone we're after will be behind the largest of gates. We _will_ see each other again.”

–

Kyndoril had to admit, a dozen men from each of the counties of Cyrodiil, bolstered by a number of legionnaires, was a reassuring sight.

Then he saw the welwa banner among them, and his stomach fell. It was far too late to wonder what had become of King's Haven, he bitterly told himself. Bruma was more immediate. He could do nothing for Summerset.

And yet, if this led to finding the amulet, it would be everything to Summerset. To halt the surge of daedra would save all of Tamriel. Stendarr willing, there would be time to resent the Imperial Legion later.

Martin's speech ended. And too soon, the skies grew blood-red. A tear appeared in the Mundus, framed by an _oht._

The first daedra to emerge fell to an arrow. And then there were a few too many for Raghnailt's bow to keep up with. Kyndoril drew his sword as clannfear and scamps crashed against the front line.

A second gate appeared, and Kyndoril realized that the air outside Bruma had grown much too warm for early winter. Waves of heat poured forth from Oblivion; a reek of burning metal and sulfur settled over the battle. More beasts and dremora had joined the fight.

The ground shook. And a third gate, wide enough to swallow a modest house, opened between the others.

“Go!” Raghnailt yelled. “Now!”

And she led him and Brenor in their charge, past the ranks of the Empire, toward the daedra stepping into Nirn. Her shock magic cleared the path into Oblivion, and Kyndoril braced himself for the unforgettable sensation of walking into an inferno.

Soon, they faced the landscape of the Deadlands, cruelly sharp iron walls and towers spanning the hills. Ahead, a gate swung open to reveal a wall of fire. Some tall metal monstrosity advanced, its head burning and spinning and spewing flames as it marched slowly, mechanically, jerking legs the size of support pillars.

Under better circumstances, Kyndoril would have thought before screaming, “What is that thing?!”

“A daedric siege engine!” Brenor answered. “What else would it be?”

Kyndoril looked at Raghnailt. “Is it werewolf time?”

“No. Now shut up.”

A few agonizing seconds of focus, and a cool violet glow surrounded her. The light took the shape of a dire wolf and leapt from her body. He did not need to ask what had happened, or how. Somehow, she had pulled the daedric being from herself, forced it to manifest without changing her shape.

“Find the stone,” Raghnailt told it, “and stop for nothing!”

The ghostly wolf flew like a dart, weaving between dremora and vanishing into the smoke and steam somewhere beyond the siege engine.

“A daedra,” Kyndoril asked. “You can... command that daedra?!”

“She's not one of Hircine's, not anymore!” Raghnailt paused to loose one, two arrows. A pair of charging dremora staggered and collapsed.

One of the dremora struggled to regain their footing, before falling and laying still. But not before their fellows took notice. Before Kyndoril could shout a warning, that a wall of daedra were advancing, Raghnailt made a gesture. A thundercloud the size of a small house swept over their heads, flashing with bursts of shock magic.

“This? This is what you did in the arena?”

“No. Too dangerous for the crowd.”

And with that, she grabbed his arm.

The instant Kyndoril blinked, they were standing in front of a tower door, one modestly far from the gate through which they'd arrived. A door that the wolf daedra growled and pawed at. Not one to deny a reformed Hircinic being, Kyndoril cast his spell. Mechanisms turned, the tower opened to them, and the wolf ran inside.

Raghnailt did not follow immediately, but dropped a handful of dust and dark fragments at her feet and drew long steel dagger from under her fur cloak. Then she followed her companion, with Brenor close behind.

As they ascended the spiraling steps, Kyndoril's mind connected what Brenor had said about gathering souls with what Martin told him about the ring, and what the wolf was obviously up to now.

“I suppose this is also how you found that welkynd stone in such a hurry?” he asked.

Raghnailt was a bit too busy knifing a dremora twice her size to talk. And she had no answer for him after she shoved the body and it let fall over the edge of the stairs.

Soon, she felled a second and third, in such tight quarters, in the same manner. And his thoughts briefly turned to the Imperial City. It was little wonder she'd survived the arena.

The daedric wolf, for its part, had vanished completely, leaving anything that would have chased it to deal with three beings far more mortal instead.

Finally they came to a landing, to a short hall approaching an open room, but Raghnailt barred their way with an arm. The meaning of this was obvious when somewhere ahead, a large, flat blade fell from the ceiling, sank through a groove in the floor, and shot back upwards.

“I see Dagon was inspired by the Bretons,” Kyndoril sighed, gazing beyond the guillotine trap. Just a few feet past that were two more blades. “So, did your wolf get past this?”

“Yes, or we wouldn't be talking,” said Raghnailt. “Now grab my arm.”

He and Brenor both obeyed, and in an instant they were standing before another door. And Kyndoril felt in his mind and gut the same sensation he'd noticed in the gate outside Kvatch. He wasted no time unlocking the entrance.

Raghnailt and her daedra rushed in, for the curved ramp, Brenor at their heels.

And then there was a snarl, followed by a sharp, pained cry he had not expected to hear. The daedric wolf had vanished, Raghnailt had fallen....

Brenor snatched her dropped bow from the floor and returned the black arrow to its archer somewhere above.

His heart hammered and dread gripped him, but Kyndoril dashed past them, past Brenor who trembled but held his ground with Raghnailt's dagger, past Raghnailt clawing at the floor, and somehow, around the reach of another dremora.

Nothing mattered but getting the damned stone. Bruma would be saved. Raghnailt might still be spared....

The great sigil stone hovered in its pedestal, above the center of the tower. And he ignored the burn of the flames and tore it away.


	22. The Witch's Secrets

Bruma did not fall. Removing the great sigil stone had not only closed the gate into Nirn, but had cut off the siege engine from whatever force of Oblivion that had fueled it. It would sit quietly outside the walls of Bruma, harmless, useless, helpless before rain and snow and the hands and tools of mortals eager to dismantle it lest the Mythic Dawn make another attempt.

Nor did Raghnailt of Markarth perish on that day. She did not look injured, but had been overcome by some sort of exhaustion, which Brenor explained had set in the instant her wolf friend had taken a fatal blow. And this had something to do with their arrangement.

“She doesn't live in the Hunting Grounds,” he said. “She takes refuge in a mortal body. So, if she dies....”

Now Raghnailt lay in Cloud Ruler Temple, tired and bored in the coziest bunk that the Blades could spare, head and shoulders propped up by pillows, water and hot meals left in easy reach.

“She's not _dead_ ,” Raghnailt muttered. “Not exactly. Daedra can't be killed forever. They reform and come back.... And right now... right now she's feeding off every bit of magicka she can get.”

“So it's like you're with child,” said Kyndoril, “except the child is a wolf monster.”

Brenor's brow wrinkled and he made a strange gesture with his hands, and Raghnailt bared her teeth. “As soon as she comes back, I'm going to rip your face off and nail it to your ass.”

Kyndoril blushed and reconsidered his words. “You're... right. That was uncouth. Still, your spirit is heartening. You'll be on your feet again before you know it.”

But, Kyndoril suspected that it would be a while before she performed any more heroics.

“Doesn't seem like it,” said Raghnailt. “I don't know how long this will take. I've never seen her die before.”

“And... are they really letting you stay here?” Kyndoril asked. “Does the Emperor know?”

A voice behind him gave him a shock. “I'm a priest. Expecting me not to notice a strong daedric presence is a grave insult.”

Kyndoril turned to face Martin Septim, who despite having returned to his humble robes still looked very much like the Emperor he had seen on the battlefield.

“Martin! Sire,” Kyndoril corrected himself. “This woman has given so much for Cyrodiil, you can't possibly–”

“I can, but I won't.” Martin stepped around him. “I had hoped that the saviors of Bruma would mend quickly. But I see that the last battle has taken its toll.”

Brenor and Raghnailt exchanged worried looks, but Martin shook his head. “Your help has been invaluable, but I will not ask more of you while you recover. You may stay here as guests as long as you wish.”

“He means well,” Kyndoril pointed out. “I too have been shooed away from serving the Emperor, for my own benefit.”

“As for the nature of your condition, the Blades are convinced that you were simply poisoned in the Deadlands, and the truth will go with me to my grave.”

“Much appreciated,” said Raghnailt. “I'll try not to lurk any longer than I have to.”

“Where would we go?” asked Brenor.

“Don't care. Anywhere but Skyrim....”

“Divines keep you both,” Martin said, and turned to leave the barracks. Kyndoril took this as his cue to follow.

Martin did not speak until they had closed the door. “Well. One more trial remains.”

“This Paradise of Camoran's,” Kyndoril whispered, feeling his nerve fade. “Forgive me for not being excited to rush in. We of Summerset pride ourselves on humility, and you ask me to face a king's nephew in a realm of his own making.”

“What, and the Emperor of Cyrodiil is easy?”

“You're also not leading an evil cult.”

“And are you not an elven king yourself?”

Kyndoril thought of Silabaene, a mer whose menace had faded from his mind in recent chaos. “My lord, when two elven kings try to impede each other, it rarely ends well. But I will do as you say,” he added as Martin opened his mouth. “We did not come all this way to cower on Mankar Camoran's doorstep.”

“Well said. Well... I have everything prepared in the great hall.”

“Ah... I don't think the Blades want to dine with a portal to Oblivion.”

Martin gave a weak smile. “It is a sacrifice they must make if they don't want to sleep next to Oblivion. Now... as for the ritual. I have studied the texts carefully. I have... some familiarity with these matters. Once you have stepped into Oblivion, the portal will close. You will be alone with whatever lies in Mankar's realm. Is there anything you need before you depart? Food? Sleep? Anything at all?”

“I'm not sure if I will ever be ready to step into a one-way portal into hell,” Kyndoril admitted. “I will speak to the others and eat before I depart.”

–

After eating his fill, Kyndoril returned to Raghnailt and Brenor with something a werewolf and Bosmer would surely be unable to refuse: a generous offering of sweet, spicy chicken and wheat noodles from the kitchens.

“Ah, thanks,” Raghnailt said. “So, what did the Emperor want with you?”

“I'm leaving to retrieve the Amulet of Kings, of course.... And I couldn't step into Oblivion without paying you both one more visit now, could I?”

Brenor squinted at him, then traded looks with Raghnailt.

“Yeah, you say that like you're about to die,” he said. “But I don't think it's going to be that terrible. Camoran's trying to take over Tamriel. His entire daedric army won't be with him. They'd be useless there.”

“Your confidence is heartening.”

“Well... I don't know. That's just something my grandparents told my mother while Haymon and Kaltos were taking over the whole forest.”

“Ah.”

“Hey, elf king,” Raghnailt said. “It'll still be dangerous, but take this.”

Kyndoril looked down to see that she had pulled on a thin glove. And a large silver ring sat in the palm of her hand.

“Raghnailt?”

“It's a magic ring,” she said. “Really useful. It'll block a bit of the cold, but there's something else special about it. It will let you teleport anywhere you like, as long as you can think of the place, as long as it's not too far away. Don't be scared of it. You're not going to disappear unless you're very focused on where you want to be the moment you put it on. And once you go, it won't work for you again until you... well... give it another soul. It can be a white soul, don't worry....”

Kyndoril hesitated. “Something like this is invaluable. You've used it so well.”

“And that's why you should take it. We've made up our minds. We're taking a holiday when I get my feet back. No more arenas, no more being the Emperor's mercenaries, and no more jails if I can help it.”

Kyndoril accepted the ring, then inspected it. It did look plain, but the magicka surrounding it was strong indeed. “I will cherish this. But you know... if you wait for me, I can accommodate you both in Summerset when all of this is over.”

“That's really generous, Your Tallness. But....”

“We've been thinking of visiting Silvenar,” Brenor finished. “And maybe Arenthia.”

“But if we change our minds, we'll figure out how to find you. There can't be _that_ many elven kings floating around the Summerset Isles.”

Kyndoril bowed his head. “Then may the Aedra guide you and keep you safe. Farewell.”

He had nearly reached the door again when Brenor called out: “Listen! You're probably _not_ gonna die!”

He turned to give them one last nod, then made his way back to the great hall. Martin was waiting for him.

“I'm ready to see this done when you are,” said Kyndoril, and adjusted his belt and scabbard. “Send me to Camoran.”

“If you're certain?” Martin asked.

“I will never be certain about something like this. Just do it.”

The air in the room changed as Martin made a gesture, spoke some daedric incantation. The mace, Tiber Septim's armor, the welkynd and sigil stones took an eerie glow and vanished as pumice and heat erupted in the center of the hall. A fiery portal appeared, framed between spikes like a beast's claws.

His view of Martin was obscured by the flames. But he still heard him. “The fate of Nirn is in your hands now. Gods go with you, Kinlord!”

As High Kinlord of Luxurene, he should have been able to think of _something_ suitable for the occasion that was jumping into Oblivion, with the possibility of never returning, for the third time. But, he could not think of anything better than: “I'll be back soon!”


	23. The Missing God

Kyndoril was sure that the ritual had gone wrong. The portal did not spit him into a land of fire and iron, but a gorgeous Cyrodilic hillside, tall green oaks all around, a sunrise casting a golden glow across it all. Marble slabs laid into the ground marked a path winding higher into the hills.

Then he saw the clannfear picking at something on the ground ahead, and remembered that this realm was supposed to be Mankar Camoran's paradise. Few mortals, even daedra worshipers, considered a place of endless fire and smoke to be a paradise.

A voice filled his mind, drowning out the wind, confirming his suspicions.

“So! The cat's-paw of the Septims arrives at last. You didn't think you could take me unawares here of all places? In the Para–”

“No. I really didn't,” Kyndoril called back. “Now get out of my head and gloat at me like a normal mer.”

“Silence, dog. Gaze upon my Paradise, Gaiar Alata in the old tongue.”

“Approximately, I suppose. It _is_ radiant, I'll grant you that.”

“It is a vision of the past... and the future.”

Kyndoril paused, the gravity of Mankar's words in his mind. But before he could argue, the voice had departed.

Kyndoril eyed the clannfear, and remembered that he was alone this time. No Reach witch was there to lead him through the dangers. No ancestor would come to his rescue. And Camoran already knew of his presence.

He thought of Kvatch. That first journey into Oblivion, where he had spent so much time creeping, hiding in the shadows, running behind the backs of dremora until he'd been found and forced to fight.

The clannfear, on the other hand, did not seem to notice him. And preferring to keep things that way, Kyndoril began to tread quietly in another direction, away from the obvious marble path and any who guarded it.

And so he crept past daedra of all sorts. Atronachs, clannfear, imps and scamps, massive daedroth, and of course a dremora or two. Stars be praised, though his heart raced in his chest and he feared that an unforeseen sneeze or cough or yelp would give him away, he passed silently up the landscape.

Then Mankar Camoran blared in his ears again.

“Behold the Savage Garden, where my disciples are tempered for a higher destiny: to rule over Tamriel Reborn.”

“Reborn?” Kyndoril whispered. The lessons his mother and Vanus had taught him flashed in his head. The battles between Anu and Padomay. The chaos of the Dawn. Lorkhan's assault on Tamriel. All ancient tragedies that had decimated populations and ravaged the face of Nirn. “ _Reborn_?”

“If you are truly the hero of destiny, as I hope, the Garden will not hold you for long. Lift your eyes to Carac Agaialor, my seat at the pinnacle of Paradise. I shall await you there.”

And Mankar Camoran's voice departed, leaving his thoughts seeming a deafening roar.

“And how does the Daedric Prince of Destruction lead to this?” Kyndoril asked, waving his arms at Ayleid marble-work and the forest of oaks. “Dagon isn't going to grant you some facsimile of the past!”

There was no reply.

No reply except for the immediate attention of a dremora in bulky armor of vivid red, gold, and gray. The fire-red hilt of a longsword poked out over his shoulder.

The dremora did not attack, even as he closed in. Instead, he stared down at him with a cold gaze, as if considering whether or not to squash a bug.

And Kyndoril realized that he'd been creeping around somewhere halfway between normal standing posture and a crouch, hunched forward, head down, long legs bending at almost painful angles to keep his tall Altmeri form hidden behind the brush. His already stained, ashen priest robes were now dragging in Oblivion grass and dirt.

But, he reached for some measure of dignity. “Fivefold venerations.”

“You destroyed the sigil tower at Ganonah.”

“I don't remember any place called Ganonah.”

“My kin say you tried to hide from them and fled from battle like a beaten dog.”

Kyndoril steadied a hand on the scabbard of his silver sword. Which _was_ silver, and far more useful than crouching behind a plant now. “I entered Oblivion to close gates, not to leave corpses.”

“They also say you were cunning and persistent.”

“How else does one survive meeting a great kyn?”

“And that you distracted them with charm before making your escape.”

“Oh. Well, then!” Kyndoril smiled, in spite of his fear. “If you have been warned, I see no reason to hold back!”

“An empty threat from a trembling mortal.”

“How can you be sure my threat is empty if you do not know what I've threatened you with?”

“Then what is this 'threat'?”

Kyndoril hesitated. What _exactly_ he would do to thwart this particular dremora was not clear even to him. So he settled for another threat. “I'm going to _end_ this little Paradise of Camoran's. You'll be back to watching over a hell of ash and brimstone by the day's end.”

“Perhaps, but before I let you flee, you will listen.”

Kyndoril stared, then removed his hand from his sword. “I'm assuming I'll at least be granted a head start when it comes time to flee?”

The dremora ignored him. “There is only one way out of the Savage Garden, and I guard it. It would be easy to crush you. But I think you would rather perform a service.... Will you choose death, or service?”

In all likelihood, the dremora meant to say combat, not death. But that he offered a way out of the Savage Garden was curious.

“You sound as if you care little for Camoran's safety. But why let me pass at all?”

“I serve Lord Dagon. Mankar Camoran's ambitions are meaningless mortal hubris.”

“Then would it not be better if this world of his vanished, and you could return to Lord Dagon? Why consider killing me when I could solve your problem? In fact.... _I_ would go so far as to ask your aid. Let us end our torment together.”

“I will aid you when you perform a service for me.”

And there was no more attempting to convince him. Aedra forgive me, he prayed. I do this only to stop Dagon's advance.

“Very well. You have my service.”

–

What the dremora Kathutet demanded of him irked his conscience more than any other moment since his arrival on the mainland. The so-called unmortals, Mythic Dawn followers who had died and been resurrected in the garden, were in a way akin to daedra. They could die but would always return, and Camoran found this quality advantageous.

The unmortals still knew pain and fear, and were not as pleased about their ability to die and return. In fact, they seemed to _hate_ it, for the daedra of Paradise tortured and battled them endlessly, thinking to force them to grow in power. And no amount of practice in dying made it any more pleasant to bear.

But several unmortals had managed to imprison one of their tormentors – a xivilai. Kathutet gave his word that he would allow him to leave the Savage Garden if he freed Anaxes.

Kathutet pointed the way to a cave, and Kyndoril entered. The first unmortal who greeted him was a human, an Imperial perhaps.

“Do not free Anaxes! He tortures us. He–”

And Kyndoril forced himself to ignore his heart. “You will not gain any sympathy from me. If you wish to be spared another death, by my hand or the xivilai's, then run. Now.”

“But–”

Kyndoril drew his sword, and the man recoiled and fled. Others soon followed, grumbling to themselves about cruelty and elves. They would know peace when a broken Paradise spat their souls out, he told himself. It was just a temporary extension of their pain, to end an eternity of suffering and spare the rest of Tamriel a similar fate.

He came to a stop before a large, roundish boulder held fast against the wall by two logs of oakwood.

“Really?” he called. “Anaxes? This is your prison?”

“Do not mock me! Release me at once!”

“Of course. It'll take but a moment....”

He tried not to waste time imagining what could even lure a xivilai into such a crude trap long enough for a handful of mortals to seal it so... thoroughly. He wrenched one log free, eyed the boulder with some unease, then went to the next.

“I have come on Kathutet's bidding,” Kyndoril added, and hoped the unspoken plea not to turn on him was obvious. “He awaits our return outside this cave.”

The second log fell. Kyndoril stood back and watched in awe as the boulder hurtled away from the mouth of the tunnel, a xivilai quickly taking its place. Anaxes, tall, winged, and gray, merely passed him on his way to seek vengeance against the unmortals. He followed in his wake and tried to ignore the screams of pain and horror that soon began.

Kathutet waited for him at a marble bridge they had passed earlier, one leading across a river and toward the face of the cliffs.

“That path leads to the Forbidden Grotto,” said Kathutet. “It is the only way to leave the Savage Garden. I will allow you to cross. But you cannot enter without the key.”

And before Kyndoril could ask, he found a pair of dark leather bracers thrust at him. He took them. Something felt... wrong.

“How do I make use of these?” he asked.

“You must wear them to open the way to the Forbidden Grotto. Be warned, coward. None can escape from there. Once you enter, you will be the charge of Orthe.”

He inspected the bracers more thoroughly. Oh, yes. They were cursed. The exact workings of the curse weren't obvious, but he was no fool. Obviously it would only make it _harder_ to leave the grotto.

“If there is no way to escape, how will I reach Camoran?” Kyndoril looked back to the cliff, then up. Surely Mankar Camoran hadn't.... “Another moment of your patience, mighty kyn.... Am I to understand that I must enter through a grotto to emerge up there?”

“Yes.”

Kyndoril found Raghnailt's silver ring sitting in his pocket, just where he'd left it. “You have my thanks. But I won't need these.”

He handed the bracers back to the dremora, then imagined being up on the cliff, looking down at the river, the bridge, the Savage Garden. Kyndoril slipped the ring onto his finger.

The ring transported him exactly where he'd hoped. Kyndoril turned to see Kathutet, now far below, make an odd gesture and... run across the bridge toward the grotto.

There was nothing for it but to run further up the hill, back into the trees, where he crouched low again and tried to make sense of where he was. That, however, was hindered by the return of Mankar's voice.

“So you defy the path I have laid in my Paradise! You are as deceitful as the false gods you champion, whelp!”

“False gods?” Kyndoril hissed. “Fool. Were it not for their guidance, I would not be here to challenge you.”

He tried to ignore the voice as he walked, and came to a path. As Mankar ranted something about Julianos and Dibella, Kyndoril cast his eyes east, to an archway leading into a walled circle of temple ground.

If he were an elven king, and he was, he would place a guard or two in such an area. He did not like his odds of prevailing in combat, if those guards happened to be more dremora.

Kyndoril glanced around as he thought. If he were an intruder, and in this case he was, it would be useful for there to be a diversion. It wasn't like he hadn't made one before. And yet...

His eyes fell on a thick copse of oak trees some distance away. There was no need to worry about Y'ffre in a little realm of Oblivion. Kyndoril tossed a small fireball, then two more, and waited.

Something sparked in the tree. Thin wisps of smoke rose. But soon bark and leaf were engulfed and the wisps became plumes. Hidden out of sight of the arch, he watched as one, then two robed figures ran by, gloves already misting with frost. When no others followed, he seized his chance and ran in, under the arch, up some stairs, toward a closed door leading into a marble hall.

The door opened easily, and he shut it behind him, casting the best lock spell he could manage.

Then he turned to the throne room. And there, he guessed, was Mankar Camoran. The mer, robed in blue and gold, sat on an Ayleid throne, bathed in the glow of too many welkynd lights.

The fate of Tamriel hinged on this hour, Kyndoril reminded himself. He drew his silver blade again, and Mankar Camoran stood.

“I've been waiting for you, Champion of Old Tamriel. You are the last gasp of a dying age. You breathe the stale air of false hope.”

Kyndoril began his approach, sensing no magic opposing him yet, but calling his own to him.

“How little you understand! You cannot stop Lord Dagon. The walls between our worlds are–”

“I've had enough of you!” Kyndoril roared. But his courage wavered, and he drove all of his magicka into a less than bloody spell.

With an eerie silence, Mankar Camoran crumpled to the marble floor, fast asleep. Kyndoril gripped his sword tight in his hand, drew nearer, and reached down. The Amulet of Kings unfastened of its own accord and came free.

Kyndoril held it in his hand again and gazed into the Red Diamond.

The Red Diamond screamed. Not with a voice, but with two great Souls, each furious and terrified, struggling desperately to disentangle themselves from the other.

And he knew them.

But to think that such great power, that _gods_ could be trapped in such a thing....

“It is as your heart sees,” said a familiar voice. Kyndoril looked down to see the Wolf manifest again, her eyes and flowers bright. “Auri-El and Lorkhan are bound to the Red Diamond.”

Kyndoril swallowed and fell to his knees, and clutched the Red Diamond to his chest. As if he could actually hug the gods. “Lady Mara. What is this evil?”

The Wolf sat beside him and lowered her head, as if trying to gaze into the stone herself.

“When Lorkhan was slain, Auri-El took his heart and shot it across Tamriel. The heart sprayed blood as it flew, and some of it crystallized within Nirn. It absorbed magicka of this world. This world, that we gave so much of ourselves to create.

“Lorkhan, the opportunist, took advantage of the humans of Cyrodiil. He used the essence stolen from Auri-El to appear as Akatosh before them. He gifted to them the diamond of his blood and formed with them a pact. He promised Auri-El's eternal protection from elvenkind and Oblivion as long as their rulers were of the blood of Alessia. The humans gladly accepted this boon.

“And so, mankind unknowingly bound Auri-El to their will, his soul to the gem. They learned to manipulate the gem further, to bless new dynasties of rulers when other lines passed from the mortal world. Generation after generation of emperors performed the ritual of the Dragonfires, hoping that Akatosh would be pleased, that they would be kept safe. And indeed they were. But it was all of Lorkhan's design.”

Kyndoril felt a chill in his gut. “You can't mean.... Surely Auri-El would not abandon....”

“Do not misunderstand. Auri-El is not willing that Nirn should be beset by the Void. Nirn and mortalkind are precious to him. But it is the soul of Auri-El bound within, forced to bend Nirn to their liking, that protects the humans. And when that protection falls out of Imperial hands, it is disastrous, for only the heart of a chosen emperor can guide it.”

Kyndoril looked into the gem again and felt its sorrow. “And... what of Lorkhan? Why bind himself?”

“He has been trapped there for nearly four-hundred years. When he came to the world in his guise as Hjalti Early-Beard, he was drawn to his blood. Hjalti did not understand why he was compelled so, but he served Lorkhan's purpose. When he passed from his mortal life, his soul was drawn into the Red Diamond. It is the fate of every Dragonborn emperor. But Lorkhan was dragged with him, pulled to his own blood, by the very ritual of his instruction. He has finally been caught in his own trap.”

“And why... why do I feel this terrible pain now?”

“I am here,” said Mara. “And you are not lacking in compassion.”

“Then... what can I do?”

“I'm sorry, dear child. But by Lorkhan's design, you cannot change the gem or its fate. It must be given to Martin Septim. And... to that end....” Mara turned toward Mankar Camoran's prone body. “It would be kindest to strike while he sleeps.”

Kyndoril pocketed the Amulet of Kings, and looked upon the Wolf. And wondered if it was really Mara beside him.

“There's no need for that. It's over.”

“This pocket of Oblivion cannot be left easily,” said Mara. “Its opening and closing, its very existence, are dependent on this mortal's will. While he lives, there is no escape from this place.”

Kyndoril touched the hilt of his sword where it had fallen to the ground, but froze. “I... I cannot....”

“Stendarr would smile upon your mercy, my child. And I do not fault you. If Mankar Camoran were merciful, we would not even be in this place. But the longer we wait, the more lives and souls may be lost to Dagon. And know this: It serves no one to save the life of a mortal who would throw so many into fire and death.”

“I've... I have never taken a life.”

Mara tilted her head. “Was the dremora slain by your own blade less mortal than you, child? They had a life and soul, pitiful as they were. You felt the compassion to pray for that soul. They wait now, to return as a child of Anu.”

“And what will become of this mer's soul?”

“I will see him out of Oblivion, that he does not suffer the fate of drifting into the Void as his victims have. But I cannot promise that any of my fellows will look kindly upon him.”

That settled it. But his resolve did nothing to quell his shaking hands or the thudding in his chest. “Lady Mara. I am afraid....”

“One must never be eager to kill. But I am with you. And I will make sure he does not suffer.”

Kyndoril picked up his sword. And despite Mara's presence, he prayed to any and every god listening that he would strike true, that Mankar would fade quickly.

The memory of flesh giving way to the sword would haunt him.

Mankar Camoran's Paradise shattered and spat him back into Nirn, back onto the floor of the great hall of Cloud Ruler Temple, where he dropped the bloodied silver again and wept.

–

This form of arrival in Cloud Ruler Temple did not go unnoticed. And as soon as someone noticed an elf curled up on the floor, overtaken by muffled sobs, they raised the alarm. In seconds, several others had sped to him. Concerned Blades. Jauffre. Martin.

Kyndoril managed to compose himself, with all the strength he could manage. And he told them that it was done.

“Mankar Camoran is dead.” The words had an unpleasant taste, somehow, of cold metal. “The Mythic Dawn is no more.”

The Blades cheered. And Martin whispered something to Jauffre. Jauffre nodded, and Martin approached and knelt beside him.

“Are you hurt?” he whispered.

“Not physically. I think.”

“Ahh. I get it.” And Martin turned back to the Blades. “This man needs rest. Jauffre, if you would? We will speak shortly, but I must attend Lord Kyndoril.”

And that was all it took for Jauffre to leave, ordering the Blades with him. The hall emptied, leaving them. Just them, and... the smells of food and sweat that the Blades had left behind. And gods, the floors needed sweeping.

“I should be glad that he's gone,” Kyndoril whispered. “I know it was necessary. And yet....”

“Your heart is too gentle for this.”

“I... have the amulet.”

“I was going to wait to ask,” said Martin.

Kyndoril pushed himself onto his backside, then withdrew the Amulet of Kings from his pockets. It warmed in his hand, Auri-El and Lorkhan thrown into panic once more.

“There's something strange about it. I didn't realize it before, and I... don't know where to begin now,” Kyndoril muttered.

“Did something damage it?”

“No. It's the same as it ever was. But....”

Kyndoril held the Amulet of Kings out in his palm, and Martin reached out to take it. But as soon as their hands met, the Red Diamond between them, he recoiled as if it had scalded his fingers.

“Mara's heart....”

With a grim satisfaction that Martin would not need too much convincing, Kyndoril smiled. “No. Lorkhan's heart-blood. Big difference, my liege.”

“And....” Martin lowered his voice to a whisper. “Why is all of _Akatosh_ stuck in the amulet? And... is that _Shezarr_?”

“Because... reasons.... And yes.”

“How do you know this?”

“I would tell you, but it is such a wild tale you would not believe me.”

“Listen, Kyn, I think that you sitting here holding the highest of Divines in your hands is already unbelievable. What happened in there?”

Kyndoril tried to collect his thoughts, and explained everything Mara had told him, as best as he could remember.

Martin looked back at the gem, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“I was just as shocked. But... you still must take this. You are Martin Septim. By Lorkhan's will, the Red Diamond will only accept a Dragonborn keeper.”

“No. I understand that. I... I understand now.” Martin reached forward again and took the Amulet of Kings. “Akatosh. If I had only known, I would never have... had such doubt.... But to think... that humanity would be so faithless as to do this....”

“In fairness to you humans, Lorkhan did trick you. Why would anyone ever disbelieve Akatosh when he descends and promises his protection?”

“And... Lorkhan, why? You can't just trick everyone into doing your bidding! Are you a _daedra_?”

“Mankar Camoran seemed to think so in his _Commentaries_ , but I doubt it. But... ah... do you really want to talk to Lorkhan like that?”

“No, no. Something has shifted in the Red Diamond. Akatosh seems to agree with me. Lorkhan is ashamed, but he's probably faking it. And....” Martin frowned at the Red Diamond again. “Yes, Lorkhan, I _am_ dissatisfied. Do you realize how much disaster could have been prevented if the Dragon had been able to act without the say-so of the Emperor?”

“Oooh, watch out. He'll send an army of Nords after you to make a point.”

“And just how is he going to cry to the Nords from inside a rock?”

“He won't. He is the Trickster, so he will persuade you to make a decision that offends the Nords so deeply that they see no recourse but violence.”

Martin sighed. “Well. I suppose the Empire _does_ owe you for its power, Lorkhan. That is undeniable. But really, I'd appreciate if you released Akatosh.”

Nothing happened.

“Dispel.”

Still nothing.

“I release you both!”

The Amulet of Kings looked and felt the same as ever. And Martin turned it over to examine it. “There must be a way....”

“If there is a way, only you are capable of finding it,” Kyndoril told him. “Perhaps... the Red Diamond is not willing to release them yet. Perhaps it demands the Dragonfires be lit first. After all, it will only respond to a Dragonborn Emperor.”

“Dragonborn.... Am I really Dragonborn, then?”

“There's only one way to know, isn't there?”

“They say it will fall off the neck of one not worthy to wear it.” Martin looked at the Red Diamond again. “Well, may the Divines forgive me if we were all deceived.”

Martin Septim fastened the Amulet of Kings around his neck. It sat against his breast, red and gleaming. And Kyndoril saw, finally, renewed hope for Cyrodiil. For Summerset. For his island.

“This... is something,” he breathed. “How many lords of Summerset have witnessed the proving of an Emperor?”

“Well. Let's... break the news to Jauffre in the morning, shall we?”

“Of course, Dragonborn.”

“Oh, come. Tonight, I am still Martin.”


	24. The Scales of Auri-El

Mankar Camoran was no more and the Amulet of Kings was in the hands of the rightful ruler of Cyrodiil. But that alone did not make an Emperor, nor did it halt Dagon's siege on Nirn. The Dragonfires waited.

Mara's words still rang in his ears. In performing the ritual to light the Dragonfires, Martin would only strengthen the bonds holding two gods and doom his own soul to join them. But what else could be done to shut the doors of Oblivion?

Martin too seemed uncertain, despite his conviction to bar Dagon from Nirn. Oh, if only Uriel had known that sending an elf after his bastard son would lead him to question his own duty, not to mention the will of thousands of years of Emperors of Tamriel.

And yet, it was clear. The Red Diamond problem would have to wait until after the ritual. Then, gods willing, Martin had the rest of his life to attempt to undo Lorkhan's work.

And so, as the cold Evening Star sun rose over Tamriel, they prepared for the return to the Imperial City.

Yet another final task had been requested of Kyndoril. By tradition, the next emperor did not make his own claim to the throne. Someone would have to accompany him to the palace and speak for his worth and virtue before the Elder Council on his behalf.

“And you're sure you want an elven fugitive,” Kyndoril frowned.

“When I am Emperor, your crimes will be forgiven. You will be free to return to your holdings.”

“That will make helping me look like favoritism, my lord. Why not ask Jauffre?”

“Jauffre holds an esteemed position among the Blades, that is true. But this is not the Second Era. And,” Martin smiled, “I think that a mer who entered Oblivion three times for the sake of Tamriel has redeemed himself of all crimes against the Empire. You are worthy to speak for me.”

Kyndoril inspected his choice of clothing later. An old monk's robe, the hole where he'd been stabbed still obvious, every memory of fear and imprisonment still in the cloth. His more elegant white robe from Kvatch. He kept both robes, but chose to wear an offering of modest Colovian garb – a pine-green shirt, a soft leather vest, and trousers. His armor would be at hand if he needed it on the road, but the escort of Blades would keep bandits and animals away.

As for Martin....

“They _actually_ keep Imperial vestments up here?” Kyndoril asked, as Martin emerged in robes of silk and velvet trimmed with white fur. “Leave it to the Blades to be prepared for this in the mountains.”

“I'm sure they'd consider that a compliment.”

Only one thing remained before departing. Kyndoril returned to the barracks to check on Raghnailt and Brenor.

“Well look who's not dead,” Brenor grinned. “I knew you'd survive. Raghnailt thought you might get eaten by a daedroth, but I knew.”

“Oh, I was sure I'd get myself killed too,” Kyndoril admitted. “I hope your health is returning?”

“I'm getting my legs back,” said Raghnailt. “So it's true, isn't it? You and Martin are heading south?”

“Yes.”

“You'd better hurry, then. Make all of this worth it.”

“Of course. You'll hear the news soon enough.” And before leaving, he reached into his bag and withdrew the silver ring. He offered it to Raghnailt. “This probably saved my life, and I thank you.”

Raghnailt shook her head. “Keep it. As a memento. Elves like those, right?”

“If you're sure?”

“I am.”

“Then... if there is nothing else... this is farewell. I thank you both for saving my arse. And thank you for your confidence, Brenor.”

Brenor nodded. “Certainly.”

“Wind guide you,” said Raghnailt. “Now don't keep the Blades waiting. They hate waiting.”

Maborel's horse was not happy to see him again. But after being coaxed out and permitting him into the saddle, she was content to do as horses did and follow the backside of another horse down the winding mountain road.

The pace was agonizingly slow. Kyndoril did not bother to protest the choice to ride. The Blades had made their stance clear. Despite Martin's urgency, they were certain that little danger of Oblivion gates remained, and they would not be persuaded to let the Emperor arrive in the Imperial City through a Mages Guild portal.

No. They had to travel across the Colovian landscape in a mighty procession that befitted an emperor's status, then follow the Red Ring around Lake Rumare and enter the city from the west, in keeping with tradition.

A day passed before they were overtaken by a snowstorm that came rolling out of Skyrim, forcing them to shelter in a small village. Days later, they broke into the heartlands, where patches of snowfall remained and the air was still cold and dry. But it was preferable to the Jeralls, for them and their horses, and their ride grew easier.

And at last, as mid-Evening Star approached, they passed through the village of Weye and crossed the great Talos Bridge. Ah, yes, Kyndoril remembered. The last time he had entered the city, it had been as a prisoner, praying that fate would not meet him within its walls.

How absurd it seemed that two of the gods had been imprisoned within the city themselves, even as he sought their help.

Just a bit longer, Kyndoril thought, hoping they could hear him now. Maybe another decade or so. But you'll have your freedom soon.

He had expected to see throngs of citizens waiting to greet them as they entered the city gates. But the Talos Plaza District was as quiet as he remembered... until the people had time to notice the guard of Blades, on horseback, a Colovian in regal attire among them. Then they started pouring onto the streets, and the district filled with confused and excited shouts.

Maborel's horse began to toss her head, prompting a concerned glance from the nearest Blade. She seemed to calm again as they passed from the district and into the heart of the Imperial City.

The White-Gold Tower stretched up into the winter sky, as though it dared to challenge Aetherius and Oblivion. Despite thousands of years of human rule and repeated daedric assaults, it remained. A testament to the elven worship of Anu's persistence, and perhaps to Ayleid arrogance, it stood as the last great relic of Aldmeri Cyrodiil.

The Elder Council itself convened in a chamber on the ground floor. But as they entered, Kyndoril could see no representatives... except for an Altmer in Imperial robes. This mer, he guessed, was the High Chancellor Ocato he'd been told to expect. Ocato, the representative of... Firsthold.

Silabaene had no power in this court, Kyndoril hastily reminded himself.

But before he could speak, Ocato greeted him with the news that the full council that already met, considered Martin's claim to the throne, and accepted it.

Kyndoril's mind blazed with questions that demanded answers. So the input of another was never needed? He had been nervous for a moment that would never happen? More importantly, the Elder Council would accept a new successor to the throne without so much as laying eyes on them? What if such a candidate was incompetent? What if they could not even light the Dragonfires?

Face neutral as his station demanded, Kyndoril looked down at Martin, who met his eyes and gave a faint smile. “I sent a messenger when you disappeared into Camoran's realm. But I didn't expect this either.”

Ocato turned to Martin and knelt. “Martin Septim, on behalf of the Elder Council, I accept your claim to the Imperial Throne. We should arrange....”

His words were lost to frantic cries somewhere in the hall. By the time Ocato rose, one of the Imperial guard had rushed inside.

“Chancellor Ocato! Oblivion gates have opened inside the city! Daedra are in the walls!”

“We should have been here days ago,” Martin groaned. “The Dragonfires. We need to–”

A number of dremora charged into the Elder Council chamber. The Blades formed a wall and magic flew from Ocato's hands. And Kyndoril, aware once more of his vulnerability, _wished_ he'd worn his armor. He drew silver again.

But his arm was not needed. Faced by the palace guards, the Blades, and a battlemage of Firsthold, the dremora soon fell dead.

“Jauffre!” Hands alight with healing magic, Martin rushed to him where he had collapsed to a knee. Blood ran freely where daedric ebony had cut into his side. “Jauffre, I forbid you to die here....”

“Don't... concern yourself with me,” Jauffre gasped, casting a spell of his own. “The Dragonfires. You'll need an escort.... Men! Take the Emperor to the Temple of the One! Do not fail him!”

The Blades formed up again, and Ocato joined them, wielding a long staff in one hand. They hurried for the doors of the palace, Martin in their wake, Kyndoril following close behind and turning his thoughts to the Aedra again.

Mara help me, he tried. But no Wolf came to him in the mortal world.

The skies over the Imperial City had turned red, and that was all he had time to take in before daedra fell upon them again.

The Imperial City guard joined the battle, and the Blades pushed a path from the tower southward, toward the main gate of the Temple District. But the daedra seemed to have their orders; they advanced on the White-Gold Tower itself, as if expecting to find Martin and the Amulet of Kings inside.

Or – Kyndoril's heart skipped as they ran – was the _tower itself_ their objective?

A memory of King's Haven invaded his thoughts, as the Blades fended off an ambush on their flank. It couldn't have been a true memory, he hadn't been there, he hadn't seen daedra invade the city with his own eyes....

Their band came to a swift halt as they passed into the Temple District. The Blades, Ocato, Martin, their attention had been seized by something to the north.

An enormous being, glowing red as hot iron, wielding a battleaxe as long as three men in one of his four hands, stood head and shoulders over the district buildings. Flames leapt up at his feet. Each swat of his hands set the air on fire. Seared corpses and unidentifiable gore already lay strewn around him.

It was too late. Their mortal world was doomed. Death and uncertain rebirth into a world scorched by Dagon's fire awaited. Countless would suffer and perish before the gods intervened. History would remember this hour with bitterness and tears, if any survived at all.

“Come on!”

Kyndoril looked down. Martin had yelled in his ear, grabbed him around the arm, and started hauling him south, away from the Daedric Prince of Destruction. The Blades prepared to make one last stand.

Kyndoril tore his eyes away from Mehrunes Dagon. “Martin, what are you planning....”

“There must be a way!” Martin yelled, raising a hand at a dremora who'd spotted them. That dremora fell to a bolt of lightning. “I am Dragonborn! The blood of Akatosh runs in my veins! In the... amulet....”

He slowed for just a moment, glanced up at the heavens, then skirted the edge of a wide, round marble building. Soon another district gatehouse was in sight, but Martin ducked through a door against the nearer wall. And Kyndoril followed, understanding immediately from the shrine and basins that they had reached the Temple of the One.

Martin hesitated. “We... have Akatosh with us.... Of course....”

“Then hurry!” Kyndoril snapped, backing from the door for fear that daedra would surge in after them. “Light the Dragonfires!”

“It's too late for the Dragonfires.” Martin grasped the chain of the Amulet of Kings and pulled it off over his head. “I understand now. This is where it began, and this is where it must end!”

Kyndoril watched him, confused, unsure of his intent or how to respond. But as Martin turned to face him again, the man's eyes widened, and he turned pale as the marble around them.

“I... I see now.... In this hour... I see at last.”

“Martin? What are you–”

“Your ring,” Martin's voice cracked. “It suits you. Thank you for bringing me this far.”

And without another word, Martin ran for the altar.

“Akatosh! Long have you protected Mankind from destruction, in a prison of Lorkhan's design. But I beseech you, come to our aid, just once more!”

The ground heaved and the ceiling cracked. Kyndoril raised an arm to shield his face; stone and grit rained down into the Temple of the One, and the face of Mehrunes Dagon filled the new window to the sky.

In his terror, Kyndoril nearly missed it. He looked back to Martin just in time to see him raise the Amulet of Kings high above his head... and swing.

The Red Diamond shattered against the altar.

White light filled the Temple of the One. And then the temple was no more. The Dragon stood within the broken walls, roaring with the voice of a thousand birds, golden scales aflame, unleashing holy fire into the sky. Mighty and radiant, he spread his wings as if to shield any behind him from Dagon's wrath.

The Dragon threw himself straight at Mehrunes Dagon.

Kyndoril's head spun. As he fought to keep track of his senses, of where the sky and floor were, a burst of red and gold light swept over him.

–

…

…

…

_Mara. Kyndoril. Forgive me for parting like this. But I think you knew from the moment you reclaimed the Amulet of Kings that I would have no other choice._

_This is what awaits every Dragonborn Emperor who has drawn on the power of the Amulet. Do you remember Varen's fate? The rumors of the sacrifices by the Longhouse Emperors? The rituals of the missing years of the First Era?_

_The Amulet has taken its price. When you wake, you will find the image of the Dragon frozen in Time. That is all that remains of my mortal body. Perhaps that is a fair exchange...._

_Akatosh and Lorkhan are free now. Mehrunes Dagon has fallen. Akatosh willing, Nirn will be safer for all mortalkind._

_Do not grieve for me, Your Grace. You've far more to worry about than one soul. And I am bound for Aetherius._

_Thank you for everything._

_Farewell._

…

…

…

–

Kyndoril rested his head on the cool floor of the temple and opened one bleary eye to take in the aftermath of the battle. Far too much light greeted him. A dark, winged silhouette stood against the blue sky.

Of course.... Mara had not come to him... for she had to guide Martin in his final hour. How kind... to follow a mere mortal to their end... if only to be there for their passing.

“Be still,” said a voice somewhere above. “I've sent for a healer.”

Someone knelt next to his head. Kyndoril raised his eyes and squinted at the rough golden face of another Altmer. “Chancellor Ocato?”

“I feared you would not wake.”

“I... I shouldn't be awake. I thought that Dagon would end me. And... Martin....”

There was a quiet moment, where Ocato must have followed his gaze to the new statue in the center of the temple.

“Surely not! Is that... the Emperor?”

“He sacrificed himself to call upon Akatosh. Dagon has been killed for now. That statue is all that's left of... of the Emperor.”

“Then... it falls upon me to arrange rites for another this year, and continue in their stead.”

Kyndoril drew a steadying breath, and tried to find something reassuring to say. So, running a whole empire had to be difficult, but it was an honor, was it not? What a position!

“You know... at this rate Lillandril's going to be _pissed_ they didn't get your seat.”

“You speak as if you're familiar with–”

Kyndoril bent his arm over his head to show Ocato the floral crest of his ring.

“Stars. Forget Lillandril. You'd better survive this, or your mother will have my blood.”


	25. A Champion's Rewards

Aside from a few nasty cuts and bruises from thrown rubble, Kyndoril had been unharmed. The healer saw to him quickly and allowed him to step out of the remains of the Temple of the One. He later learned that Jauffre had lived and his wounds had mended, and most of the Blades had survived as well.

A number of civilians had been slain. As Kyndoril lay on his bed in some inn, the thought ate at him.

If only they'd made more haste to reach the city.

If only he and Martin had persuaded the Blades to let them travel by portal.

If only he'd never left the Amulet of Kings at Weynon in the first place.

If only.

But, miraculously, the city was whole. Fires had been extinguished and Mehrunes Dagon had been so focused on Martin that he had not bothered tearing up the rest of the Temple District.

At least Auri-El was free to comfort the souls of the dead. If his hands weren't full with Lorkhan.

When he regained the courage to leave the inn again, Kyndoril found that guards' faces turned in his direction as he roamed the city. It did not matter where he went, whether he tried to speak with the townsfolk or kept to himself. They knew him, somehow.

And his fears were confirmed as he took what little gold he had left and tried to walk out of city through the Talos Plaza District. Two guards moved to block his path, and one of them spoke.

“I am sorry, Kinlord, but by order of the High Chancellor, I cannot allow you to pass.”

“What does Ocato want with me?”

“The palace is open to the public if you wish to find out.”

Such an indirect reply from the mouth of an Imperial guard was striking, but if the order had come from a mer? The meaning – that he needed to come to court immediately or be dragged there instead – was not lost on him. And so he turned and began to walk.

–

As he crossed the threshold of the White-Gold Tower once more, Kyndoril wondered if the Elder Council would meet again. If at least one other representative of any of the provinces would be present. But the council chamber was quiet. It seemed that Ocato was alone in his duties that Evening Star.

And Ocato had clearly been waiting for him. For as soon as he arrived, he rose from his seat and crossed the floor to address him.

“Kinlord! I've been hoping to speak with you.”

“Chancellor,” Kyndoril bowed. “I've been directed to you.”

“The Blades told me of your selfless courage. You have risked your life for the Empire and your deeds helped to bring this Oblivion crisis to a close. For that, in my capacity as High Chancellor, I name you Champion of Cyrodiil.”

“You honor me.” But... that could not be all. Kyndoril gazed at the empty seats, and then briefly met Ocato's eyes. They were focused, with an unspoken discomfort that matched his own. There was only one thing to do: address the mammoth in the room. Kyndoril cleared his throat. “High Chancellor. If that is all the Empire wanted from me, I... see no reason to carry on with this game.”

“What are you talking about, Champion?”

“Given the scope of your responsibilities, it wouldn't surprise me if you hadn't heard yet.... I... was arrested for crimes in the Colovian lands, and from what I can tell, the Empire is not yet satisfied with the amount of imprisonment and torment I have endured.” This drew a raised eyebrow from Ocato. Kyndoril sighed, then dropped to his knees. “I give up. The Blades have had their way with me. Martin is a bit too dead to have need of me. And I doubt you planned on letting me run back to my island.”

“I was made aware of your arrests,” said Ocato. “But I'm glad you spared me the unpleasant task of having you brought here. What I don't understand is why this was so late coming to my attention, or why you were kept so long for.... Remind me. What was it?”

“One alleged heist, that I swear I did not commit or willfully act as an accomplice to. Jailbreak that I accept full responsibility for. One accidental jailbreak.” Kyndoril paused. Ocato was of Firsthold; there had to be a connection to Rilis if he had any standing in the Empire. “I cannot explain the second jailbreak, but it was not exactly intended. Various offenses that I'm not aware of, I'm sure. And all of it was the result of terrible misunderstanding and the loss of my proof of identity.”

“It's obvious you're from Luxurene. I suspected it before I saw your ring. But even the lowest of the Empire are granted a chance to defend themselves. Did you speak to no one?”

“In the confines of the city prison, I confessed. I told all that I could. I did beg the Emperor's ear. I don't think my words reached him.” He remembered, then, the note he'd found in Anvil. Silabaene's plot to let prison weaken him. Had his ordeal been hidden by Rilis too? “He came to my cell instead while fleeing the Mythic Dawn, and I heard nothing of my own circumstance. But I was entrusted with delivering the Amulet of Kings to Weynon Priory. In all that time, I received no pardon, but reprieve. Reprieve until I did his bidding. Reprieve after closing an Oblivion gate. Martin bade me to return to Summerset afterward, but I could not. I hid myself away.”

“But you returned?”

“I learned there was more to be done.”

“And that is why you've been named Champion of Cyrodiil. You've undertaken a great service for the Empire. Were it in my power, all would be forgiven. But it is not my place to decide your fate.”

“You are the Lord High Chancellor, are you not?” Kyndoril asked him. With no Emperor, there was no higher authority than the leader of the Elder Council, who could do anything save light the Dragonfires. “I'm in your hands.”

“Should the High Chancellor pass judgment on a king? A treethane? A jarl? No. And I will neither judge nor condemn a high kinlord. I must leave your fate to the High King of the Summerset Isles, or the Emperor of Cyrodiil. And since we have no Emperor, I have a very long letter to send to Alinor.”

He dared to hope, for a few shining seconds, that the Empire could no longer touch him. And that, though he did not dare to guess the whims of his own lord, Ocato would put in a good word for him. “Well, our power as rulers must end somewhere. But your kind words give me strength for the road home. That is... if I have your leave to depart...?”

Ocato shook his head. “Tell me, do you have a preference for food? Wine? Literature? I do want you to be comfortable here.”

And Kyndoril felt hope fade again. “Your Excellency, I am... deeply grateful for your patience and hospitality. But my heart longs for Y'ffre's fields, the light of Magnus....”

“I promise, you'll have a wonderful view from the tower.”

“The Abecean calls. I must return to my home.”

“I'm afraid that with your reputation, I cannot guarantee your secure passage with the limited resources I have now. But, if another lord of Summerset were to come calling, I could arrange for them to take custody and see you back to the isles while you wait for His Majesty.”

Kyndoril thought of Silabaene. And he swallowed what little pride he had left. “In that case, I'm fond of meats and sweetened foods, I've always wanted to try the Surilie Brothers' wine, and I enjoy a good drama as much as the next mer.”

–

He was granted a comfortable suite within the palace, then left to wonder how many doomed royals and hostages had waited for their end in the White-Gold Tower, in a room of fine polished marble and soft fabrics and down pillows and quilts. The window, reinforced with gleaming moonstone-steel, was paned with clear glass that let some daylight into his room. And a bookshelf was laden with material to read, though much of it featured Imperial religion or history. Ocato at least had the courtesy to have someone bring a selection of fiction for him.

He was even offered clothes: expensive Imperial leggings and tunics, robes more fashionable in the Summerset Isles, and a warmer cloak to fend off the cold. And the cloak had its uses; he was permitted to wander the gardens just outside the tower if escorted.

Kyndoril wanted to think High Chancellor Ocato kind, for a jailer, but he knew that only his birthright and new status as a hero had saved him from harsher confines. And all for the Gray Fox.

Soon, snow reached the city. And as the end of Evening Star arrived, so did Old Life. The Year Four Thirty-Three ended in solemn prayer, remembrance for Kvatch, and mourning for those who had died at the hands of Mehrunes Dagon's armies.

New Life was then dedicated to celebration and change. The reign of the Septims was over. The Amulet of Kings was lost. The time of Dragonborn rulers had ended. And so High Chancellor Ocato and the priest Jeelius, before the people of the Imperial City, declared the beginning of a Fourth Era.


	26. The Fourth Era

Ocato's message to the public was an optimistic one. The Empire would continue as it had, under the blessings of the gods, united in compassion and hope for peace.

Kyndoril was not convinced. He was not deprived of news, and Morning Star was a flurry of politics from Skyrim and Morrowind, courtesy of the Black Horse Courier.

Numerous villages across Skyrim had been destroyed by the daedra, and eastern Skyrim had suffered most. Once again, Windhelm questioned the worthiness of Solitude to rule. Whiterun would be a better capital, they said, if the Empire would not move its governor to Windhelm – the old seat of Ysgramor himself.

As for Morrowind, Houses Telvanni, Dres, and Redoran were furious. In their eyes, King Helseth was to blame for Oblivion striking the heart of their lands. Kyndoril squinted at the article. The Redoran source seemed convinced that if Helseth had not outlawed slavery just a few years ago, the other Great Houses wouldn't have unsuccessfully committed soldiers to war against Mournhold and House Hlaalu. Therefore, the military weakness of Morrowind before Mehrunes Dagon was Helseth's fault, and other drivel.

The other provinces were quiet – Summerset disturbingly so, as whatever happened in Summerset concerned him.

He would ask Ocato for news, and hear very little.

“They're in shock,” Ocato told him at first. “You know them as well as I do, Kinlord. Such a thing hasn't happened to the isles since the Second Era. ”

Another week, and the story had changed.

“I'm sorry, but the other kinhouses are displeased. Alinor is closed to outsiders, Lillandril is incensed, and even Firsthold is acting strange.”

When Kyndoril next approached, Sun's Dawn had come, and the news was worse.

“The Thalmor Council in Alinor and the greater kinhouses are demanding compensation for last year's tragedy. They are reluctant to let us make port.”

“Let me go to them,” Kyndoril offered. “They will see my safe return as a sign of good will.”

But he was denied.

–

Days later, he would rise for breakfast, then settle into his routine of reading until he had a chance to pester the High Chancellor. He'd scarcely had time to become absorbed in his book when a sharp knock sounded at the door.

Kyndoril rose, straightened his tunic, and crossed the little parlor. He tried to contain his curiosity. There was no point in thinking Ocato would have _good_ news for him, given the state of Summerset. Still, he hoped as he turned the handle that his fortunes had finally changed.

The ageless face of a blond, violet-eyed mer stared back at him.

Kyndoril shut the door immediately, and somewhat harder than was polite. Then, as he remembered _who_ exactly he'd just closed a door on, that the other mer still had considerable power and he did not, that this mer had endeavored to break him with prison in the first place, and that he had just last year threatened _two_ of the mer's servants in acts of subterfuge, his blood went cold.

Kyndoril leaned against the door, lost for an explanation, and called, “I'm... not decent!”

There was no reply, and Kyndoril wondered two things: if his kind anonymous ancestor would grant him the knowledge to cast a Psijic projection to Ocato for help, and if he could somehow melt the window and then manifest the power of flight to escape.

More realistically, how could he possibly become 'decent' when he was already fully clothed? Desperate to extend the delay and not be caught in a lie, he hurried back into his small bedchamber to tie his long hair back.

And that was as long as he could stall. Kyndoril returned to the door and opened it to face not only Silabaene, but a mer a bit behind him... Ohmonir.

Ohmonir, the mer he was not supposed to know, let alone _know_. Kyndoril directed his focus back to the High Kinlord of Firsthold, and considered his words.

“Ah, forgive me, Silabaene. I had no idea that you would grace me with your torment today, but one must look good if one is to be lured into–”

The door and frame crashed against his face and collarbone. Or, he had somehow thrown himself forward into them, and found himself unable to back away. Eyes stinging and head smarting, he noticed, faintly, the magical grasp around him.

Silabaene released him.

“ _Torment_ is listening to such babble,” he said.

“Silabaene.... I was willing to put aside kinhouses in Skingrad,” Kyndoril said. “You asked for my trust, and I gave it. I will not harbor any further illusions that you have come to me to extend a hand in aid.”

“Is that all?”

“No.” Kyndoril glanced over Silabaene's shoulder, at Ohmonir, who gazed nervously at him as if he wanted nothing more than to vanish. “But I will spare you the rest. What do you want from me, Silabaene?”

“Oh, I will not take any more of your precious time. But I think the rest of the Thalmor Council and His Majesty will be pleased to know that you are safely enjoying the Empire's hospitality.”

And Silabaene turned away, heading for the stairs down to the next level of the tower, with a trembling Ohmonir in tow.

Ocato's frustrations with Summerset replayed in his head. And so did an old Dunmer's insights into the ways of elven lords.

Surely, Silabaene's warnings were merely posturing....

An alarm in his mind and stomach told him otherwise, and he hurried out into the hall to catch up with his enemy.

–

Kyndoril found himself thrown back into Altmeri politics and diplomacy. It was merely diplomacy, he told himself, that he displayed humility in front of the mer who had tried to throw him to the humans. It was only diplomatic to let him lead on the grounds of political weight and the seniority of years.

That much seemed to appease Silabaene, to the point where he stopped demanding subservience and moved on to his purpose: matters of elves and Tamriel. Matters that were discussed over a strong tea in the little home that was his jail.

“Ocato tells me you were in the center of the Oblivion crisis,” Silabaene said. “I did not think the Empire would select a thief and escape artist as their champion.”

“It was mere coincidence,” Kyndoril admitted. “Uriel's path crossed my cell, and he chose me to carry out his wishes before he was killed.”

“And so the proud son of the Septim house trusted an _elf_ with his last request.”

“So he did.”

Silabaene made the slightest gesture at the copy of Rislav the Righteous on the hardwood table. “Tell me, Kyndoril. What do you know of the history of the Colovian west?”

Truthfully, he knew little. “Well, it has a habit of producing warlords.”

Silabaene ignored his jest. “It was the last vestige of Ayleid Cyrodiil. The people of the Rumare and eastern valleys were eager to take the place of Mer. But the Colovian kings were not so foolish. They tolerated the few elven lords who remained in the west. They sought Ayleid guidance in so many aspects of their lives. They recognized their own frailty and the truth of Aldmeris. And when Marukh emerged with his heresies, they resisted his Alessian Order. They fought for centuries to preserve what little remained of the Merethic Era.”

Kyndoril doubted that and decided to move on before his tongue got the better of him. “It seems they were doomed to lose what they had.”

“Their doom has ever been their folly. I'm sure your mother spoke of the Planemeld and the war that ensued.”

Well, that gave him a chance to impress at least. “She did. The Covenant thought itself the revival of the Empire, the Pact was little more than a Tribunal facade, and their failures to rule their own lands meant little resistance for the Aldmeri Dominion. Once Vanus Galerion and the Ayleid King Dynar ended the Planemeld itself, the Dominion helped Cyrodiil to rise from its ashes.”

“They repaid us with Tiber Septim.”

Oh, Martin forgive me, he thought. “There is little to be said of the gratitude of men.”

“And here you sit,” Silabaene mused.

Kyndoril lowered his teacup, worried. “I beg your pardon?”

“If I have understood you and Ocato correctly, you undertook life-threatening work for the Empire.”

“Silabaene, I... I did not see an alternative. I hoped that whatever I could accomplish would bring relief if Summerset were struck.”

“Did I ask for an explanation?”

Kyndoril chewed on the corner of his lip.

“You misunderstand. It was not an accusation. But you have provided, as a mer, a great service to Cyrodiil. And confinement is how they repay you. What can we provide that humanity will finally appreciate? Ocato, a mer of Firsthold, toils thanklessly to maintain order and prosperity in a breaking empire deprived now of its divinity. How long will it be before the counties fall into petty feuds and a warlord of Colovia or Skyrim arrives to pry Cyrodiil from elven hands?”

“A point at which I hope to be gone from Cyrodiil and its barbaric tendencies.”

“I may have a place for you aboard my ship, when I depart for Firsthold.”

If it was possible for a heart to leap and freeze at the same time, Kyndoril's certainly did. “I would be indebted....”

“All I require in exchange is your cooperation in a few simple tasks. I do not think you will find them disagreeable. And once you are back on your island, I will not demand more of you.”

“Of course. But please, know that Luxurene remembers those who come to aid. I do hope that this leads to a brighter future between our houses.”

Silabaene's smile was warm enough to leave an alpine lake completely solid on a winter's day. “Very good. For now, I leave you with a gift. Consider it compensation for your troubles in Cyrodiil.”

Without producing so much as a mote of lint, Silabaene rose and left the room. But before the door closed, Ohmonir stepped inside. And as the mer rubbed his hands and waited, Kyndoril understood what had happened.

“Fine. Close the door and have a seat.”

Ohmonir nodded, shut the door, then hesitantly crossed the parlor and took the chair Silabaene's backside had warmed.

Kyndoril took Silabaene's teacup and went to retrieve another one from the shelf. “So. I'm assuming your master has thrown you aside.”

Ohmonir's voice was soft, barely audible over the fireplace. “It was this or death.”

“What?” Kyndoril nearly dropped the cup. “Death?”

“You should not concern yourself with the troubles of an ouster, my lord.”

“Nonsense. If Silabaene has tossed you to me, if you truly have nowhere else to run, I see no point in letting you languish on the fringes of society. Not on my island. And not here.”

“Does this... mean you forgive me?”

In truth, he did not wish to. But as he reconsidered their positions and what had brought them to that very moment, it only seemed just.

Kyndoril poured a fresh cup of tea and slid it across the table for him. “Silabaene is not versed in the teachings of Stendarr, I see, if your hopes are so faint. Would you have stolen my ring and led me on a chase across Cyrodiil if your previous lord had not commanded it? The crime is his. As for your affiliation with Dagon, I shall hope for now that you've chosen to abandon that doomed path. So... my answer is yes. Let there be no more strife between us.”

Ohmonir merely sat there, still wringing his hands. “He knows what happened. How you found me out. He was going to hand me straight to the headsmer when we returned to Firsthold.”

“I'm sorry. You are safe now, Ohmonir. I will not give you any more reason to fear for your life.”

Ohmonir nodded, and Kyndoril thought of questioning him on Silabaene's plans, if Ohmonir even knew what his old master intended. But... no. That could wait until the shock had passed.

“And... do you know anything of Falion?”

“He's... still in Anvil. Poor idiot's safer there.”

“Hm. Well, I'll ask for more clothing and food for you when the time comes. For now... as you might have guessed, I am a prisoner in this place. If you're with me, the same probably applies. There is little to do here. You may read or sleep if you wish, and obviously I am available for questions. You may approach me whenever you have need.”

Ohmonir finally picked up his tea. “Thank you... my kinlord.”


	27. Veiled Ambitions

By the time a day had passed, Kyndoril was amazed that Ohmonir had ever been a problem. The mer did not take easily to his new settings. He avoided the bedchamber and hesitated to enter even to change clothes. He had to be reminded that he no longer belonged to a rival kinhouse, that he was welcome to engage in things such as dining in the company of a lord, and that he had already been rescued from his status as an ouster. And he did not think himself safe even in the White-Gold Tower, patrolled by the Imperial guard day in and out, but kept to one of the parlor chairs where he could see the door.

No, despite everything the fool had done, Kyndoril felt pity for him. But that did not end the need for information. He decided to question him quickly, before Silabaene demanded his attention again.

“I hate to ask these things, but I need answers, Ohmonir. You may speak freely.”

Ohmonir refused to meet his eyes, or even look in his direction. “You already know what I've done.”

“Yes. But now I ask you to provide insight into Silabaene. There are mysteries that cannot be explained by something so simple as a house feud. I know that your involvement with the Mythic Dawn served him. So, if you would. Please.”

Ohmonir crossed his arms. “How much do you know about Mankar Camoran, my lord?”

“I know that he was of the Camoran line of Valenwood, and he was driven by some goal of returning Tamriel to a Merethic Era with Mehrunes Dagon.”

“There you have it.”

Kyndoril blinked. “You don't mean to tell me that Silabaene also....”

“Not quite, lord. He just thinks that Tamriel would fare better under Aldmeri rule. But as he warned me himself, the true gods are the Aedra. He wanted secrets and lore, not a Daedric Prince. It's for the people of Summerset, he said. Right.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I gave him the contents of Mankar's _Commentaries_. But I don't know what he got out of it. Probably less than....”

Kyndoril waited, but Ohmonir gave a strange huff and glanced at the door again.

“He met with Mankar Camoran himself, didn't he.”

Ohmonir nodded.

“That would explain his presence in Cyrodiil during this entire disaster. And... merciful Stendarr. When Oblivion opened....”

“It wasn't him. It angered him and made things... difficult.”

“Fine. But you?”

Ohmonir blushed. “I don't know what I was thinking. I don't even think I wanted to be there. You must understand, he forced me to be present, and... I....”

“Of course. I'll assume your involvement was a result of circumstance beyond your control, so long as it remains that way later.”

“Y-Yes. Please.”

“Well... this is troubling. Silabaene's tactics of yesterday make sense now. So, he hopes that I will further his ambitions to gain control of Cyrodiil?”

“Perhaps. And he's probably hoping that you'll marry his niece so he can get closer to Luxurene.”

This time, Kyndoril felt his own cheeks go red. “First of all, my mother would disown me. Second, I don't even know a thing about this lady other than that she exists.”

“You might want to hurry up and establish better ties with Lillandril, then....”

“Ohmonir? Grateful as I am for any advice to dodge a marriage to Rilis, you're not an advisor or an aldarch, and Lillandril is a last resort.”

“I'll remember that.”

“But this is disturbing. Cyrodiil might have failed to govern Tamriel, but what Silabaene desires would amount to treason. Not to mention it would demand the cooperation of the rest of the Summerset Isles.... And why bother with me?”

“Well... your house is old. Your holdings may be small, but your family's word carries weight. An alliance of Luxurene and Rilis would be formidable. The rest of the great houses, even Alinor, would have to at least pay attention.”

“Then I have an idea of what to expect, and for that I thank you.”

–

Kyndoril did not have to wait long for Silabaene to demand his company again, this time in the lodging Ocato afforded him. The suite was grander and more furnished, more befitting of a visiting king and not a prisoner of high birth.

“I trust my gift meets your expectations?”

Kyndoril smiled. “He has a propensity for shying away, yet he is obedient, eager to serve. There is much to learn of House Rilis in every subservient syllable that falls from his lips. I _am_ impressed.”

His anger simmered. Ohmonir, Falion had been reduced to cringing remnants of mer.

“Such an example,” Kyndoril added, “was well-timed.”

“Then you know where we stand.”

Silabaene's meaning was clear. Become as Ohmonir, or be cast aside just as he had been. If that was the role he was expected to play... it would have to do.

“Much can be said in few words, but I would not dare presume. You have my service for now, as you know. You... er... said you had tasks for me?”

“You can assist me today. As you may be aware, the Summerset Isles suffered under Dagon's invasion. Our people are grieving and angered, and the Thalmor Council demands information.”

“Well, I know much of what transpired, if you would like to hear it from me.”

“Do you?”

“I'm sure you know of the old Alessian covenant. It demands a living emperor. The Mythic Dawn murdered him and struck while there was no Emperor of Cyrodiil.”

“An alarmingly simple way to ensure the downfall of an empire. But the Thalmor are aware of this. No, I seek details of the Empire's actions during the invasion. The High Chancellor is not ready to divulge them. I need him to reconsider, Champion of Cyrodiil.”

–

Kyndoril could think of only one place to seek the High Chancellor of Cyrodiil. As expected, the mer was found in the Elder Council chambers, missives and documents spread over the table before him.

“Fair day.”

Ocato looked up. “Ah, Kyndoril. Company does brighten this hall, but I might ask you to be silent at times....”

“I understand. It's been so long since I sat at a desk. To work. But I remember. Not that the task of managing a small island is comparable to Tamriel.”

“With luck, you'll soon know this glorious duty again. Now... is there something I can help you with?”

“Silabaene found me.”

“Of course he did. I apologize. I can't hide you from the High Kinlord of Firsthold, and I hoped that he would be in a generous mood.”

“So far, I've taken in one ouster from his lands and I've been invited to be spoken to.”

“That explains the servant's nervous behavior. So!” Ocato's smile vanished, and he sat up in his chair. “What does Silabaene want from me now?”

The sudden shift in Ocato's tone, his posture, the very presence he exerted reminded him that he was standing before the highest person in all of Tamriel.

“It concerns Summerset, my lord. As you've told me, there is unrest among the Thalmor and the other lords. Perhaps, if Cyrodiil could lend a few words, address their fears, the isles could move forward from this? I... admit, I am also troubled. I saw the Welwas arrive from Summerset with my own eyes.”

“I don't think Silabaene will be satisfied by a few words.”

“You've had dealings with him before, haven't you?”

“Yes,” said Ocato. And Kyndoril glanced around anxiously as the High Chancellor's voice reverberated through the chamber. “And constantly, I must remind him that his sire did not place me here to answer to Firsthold and the High King of Alinor. I have served all of Tamriel by the grace of her emperors. And I will not bend backwards for House Rilis while all of Tamriel calls for assistance. Nor can I explain or divulge every movement of the Imperial Legion, I remind you.”

“I... understand. Forgive me.”

Ocato's irritation quelled somewhat. “You have my sympathies, Kinlord. My heart aches for my old home. But only so much can be done in one day.”

“I understand that, but....”

“But?”

“Please. If there is anything I can deliver to Silabaene that might satisfy him....”

Ocato sighed. “I'm sure you've guessed. Relations between the Empire and Summerset are stretched. Our houses resisted the reign of the Septims in vain, but to sacrifice what peace we have now would be a disaster for us all. I do not wish to provoke the Thalmor or His Majesty. But whatever reaches them in the end must be delivered delicately.”

“Our hearts are as one in this,” Kyndoril whispered. “And I would give whatever assistance I can in appeasing Summerset, with what little power I hold as High Kinlord of Luxurene. I will make no demands. But if there is anything I might say on your behalf...?”

“Very well. I have been asked of the Welwas. Tell Silabaene that I am regretful of anything that befell northern Summerset in their absence. The Legion hoped to counter Oblivion where its presence seemed more concentrated, for the good of all.”

–

Predictably, Ocato's apology was not enough for Silabaene. But the High Kinlord of Firsthold made progress of his own.

Kyndoril wanted to hope that he had not given Silabaene any ideas, but he was growing interested in whatever Auri-El was up to. Or to be more specific, how Auri-El was obviously trapped in some scheme of human making.

He decided not to share a word of what Mara had told him, or the fact that Auri-El had gone free back in Evening Star. However, Silabaene's theories inspired his next course of action. Before Silabaene could summon him for another afternoon of pretending to find him clever, he made a request of his jailers.

“I would like to visit the Temple of the One today, if escort could be arranged.”

That the Temple of the One still existed as it once had struck him as odd. In the aftermath of Dagon's attack, its chapel was little more than a circle of marble wall that the Imperial engineers had deemed safe enough. Jeelius still tended it and its new Akatosh statue, and the devout still gathered to pay their respects to the Divines and Martin.

He'd made his own visits before, and Jeelius had grown used to seeing him there from time to time. Hard as it was to look at the stone remains of Martin, he found some comfort under the Dragon's wings.

The guard did not bother following or listening whenever he and Jeelius spoke. What threat did the temple priest pose, when assisting a criminal was sin against the Divines?

He did of course hope Jeelius wouldn't see it as sin when he made his request.

“Soul gems? Why do you need soul gems?” the priest whispered.

“I don't need the souls of people,” Kyndoril clarified. “Only Mages Guild approved souls, and just two or three would be plenty.”

“I hope you don't mind me asking what you plan to do with those souls?”

“A dear friend of mine left something in my possession before we parted ways. The enchantment has been useful before. It helps keep the winter's cold away. It would bring me comfort to restore it. But I have no other means to acquire a soul gem while I wait for the judgment of my king.”

Jeelius stared at him, unblinking. “I'm sure. But wait here. I think I have something for you.”

While the priest walked away, Kyndoril turned to look at the dragon statue again. Auri-El give him courage. Just recharging Raghnailt's ring would make it so easy to flee. And flight was not an act that would go unnoticed.

He did not trust himself not to run early and make things worse, as he had in Anvil. But even more foolish was the idea of denying himself such an escape. Mara, gave him the strength to know the correct moment.

“Will four suffice?”

Jeelius had returned. And Kyndoril nodded.

“Yes. I wish I could repay this.”

“There is no need. I haven't forgotten the rescue. Stay moist, hero.”

–

By the time another week had passed, Ohmonir had begun to relax around him. No longer was he convinced that Silabaene was lurking in the shadows, waiting to punish him for some failure. At least, not as long as he was around.

“Where are you going?” he asked late one morning.

“Silabaene wants to see me. Don't fret. Once I'm there I'm sure I'll have his undivided attention.”

The bewildered look on Ohmonir's face told him that had been a poor way to phrase it.

“And you know perfectly well that I wouldn't get within twenty feet of his bare delicates, so please.”

“Must you, my lord...?”

“Apologies. But as I said, do not worry yourself. I'll return later.”

What Silabaene demanded of him that morning was nothing short of interrogation. He sat, while Silabaene paced and asked him obvious, banal things. He might have been quizzing a child on the most basic aspects of Imperial culture.

“The Empire claims that their Akatosh descended from Aetherius to slay Mehrunes Dagon. Is this true?”

Kyndoril knew better, and answered each increasingly worrying question with care. “That they claim this? Or that Akatosh descended? And why do you ask?”

“You were present at the moment of his defeat.”

Kyndoril looked around the room, too bright from the late winter sun, and felt exposed. “I saw Mehrunes Dagon break into the temple. And I saw a golden dragon appear in Martin's place. They fought. I fell unconscious. When I awoke, only a stone dragon remained. But I cannot say for certain who came to Martin's aid.”

“Strange. The Empire seems to think you confirmed the arrival of Akatosh, and that you were alone with the Septim when he died.”

“I won't deny them their interpretation of what I relayed. But the shock was great. I can't confirm what I don't remember.”

“You are hesitant to speak of Akatosh.”

Leave it to Silabaene to hunt his point. Kyndoril folded his hands in his lap. “Would a mer of Summerset claim to see Akatosh? But I am not certain that Auri-El was present.”

“Do you remember the Alessian Order?”

“Yes...?”

“Recall the events of the First Era. They understood what mer in their fear deny. Our Auri-El is bound to their service as Akatosh. But that was not enough to sate their thirst for control of Tamriel. They sought to destroy all _elven_ aspects that remained, and the Dragon broke.”

Kyndoril turned his face as if to gaze out the window, and tried to think of a decent lie. Anything to avoid telling him the truths that Mara had shared, to support his suspicions. Silabaene did not give him time.

“The Oblivion Crisis may be over, but with Akatosh in humanity's grasp and no Emperor, we cannot rely on Cyrodiil's protection.”

“And what are you proposing?”

“The Thalmor Council seek to leave. A return to the past, and our ancient glory. For Mer to govern their own lands as Auri-El decreed.”

Having heard Silabaene's goal of treason with his own tapered ears, Kyndoril sank a bit lower into his chair. Oh, he and Mankar Camoran had more in common than either of them knew.

“A third Aldmeri Dominion, then,” Kyndoril asked.

“In time, yes. But for now, Alinor must wrench itself from Cyrodiil's grip. And two kinlords in the center of Imperial power have so much opportunity....”

“And... how does this relate to Akatosh?”

“It is simple. The High Aldarch of Alinor, in his wisdom, understands that Auri-El's severance from the whims of humanity is the key to our ascension above lesser Men. And knowledge hoarded in this very tower will lead us there. You know of what I speak.”

Kyndoril blinked. “If you're talking about the Imperial library, I don't think they'll deny us a bit of reading material.”

“The Imperial library holds nothing of value. What I seek is an Elder Scroll.”

And nothing seemed to exist anymore. Nothing except the room, Silabaene, and the immeasurable audacity in what he had just dared to say.

“They will not hand either of us an Elder Scroll.”

“Then why have I called you here? You've developed a talent for petty burglary. Shall we put it to use?”

“Silabaene, you go too far,” Kyndoril breathed. “You ask me to steal an Elder Scroll? Cyrodiil would consider it an act of aggression. Summerset would–”

“Are you of Aldmeris? Or have you become a slave to Cyrodiil's interests?”

“I am the High Kinlord of Luxurene.”

“You are little more than an ill-bred prince of an insignificant island,” Silabaene replied.

“Bold words from the withered branch of Rilis, the second choice of Firsthold,” Kyndoril spat, rising from his chair.

Silabaene's eyes flashed, but the mer continued as if he had not heard him. “And your position now is precarious.”

“Is that a threat?” Kyndoril snarled. “Will I become as Karoodil and Morgiah? Or did they simply extol your worthiness and make way for you? I have entertained you, but I will have no part in–”

“I will be plain. The Thalmor have no tolerance for this treason. Continue in your defiance, and you will have only two options. Die in the sight of your peasants and the young Kinlady of Luxurene, or be dragged through the gates of Alinor in cold-iron and die in shame before the High King.”

Kyndoril froze, and his mind grasped for an escape. But there was none. Not from a mer centuries older, whose name had carried so much weight in the isles even before his ascension to Firsthold's throne. Not while that mer stood in the very council that would readily condemn him – a mer whose youth and deeds gave him all the standing of an errant child. And certainly not while all other connections to Summerset were denied to him.

There... were no options. Once again, his courage and bluff collapsed like dry sand.

“I will serve the Thalmor.”

“Oh, if only I could believe you.”

Kyndoril struggled to keep the panic out of his voice. “Silabaene, you have made yourself clear.”

“And so have you.” The High Kinlord of Firsthold turned, forcing him to look instead at a river of pale hair, crystal beads glinting like cold stars in his plaits. “What good is a coward to the Thalmor?”

And that, he understood, was the cue. His heart and eyes burned with hatred, but such situations demanded _propriety,_ and Silabaene had once demonstrated what could happen if he did not perform.


	28. A King's Loyalties

He trudged back to his suite an hour later, closed the door, and leaned against it. His pride ached, as if it still mattered. His knees were somewhat worse, but rest would fix that.

“My lord?”

Kyndoril opened his eyes again. Ohmonir stared at him from one of the cushioned chairs, face wrinkled with concern.

“I knew he was terrible. But you never told me your old master was a xivkyn,” Kyndoril said.

Ohmonir rose from his seat. “I thought that was common knowledge. Come, sit. I'll pour your tea.”

Kyndoril dragged his feet into the parlor, found a chair, and collapsed into it while Ohmonir busied himself. Too soon, he heard footsteps, and a worried voice.

“Kinlord?”

Ohmonir had settled into his chair again. Kyndoril sighed and wondered how best to deliver the news, and if Ohmonir even needed to know.

“This can't go on.”

“My lord, I... know Silabaene is a... what was it? A loathsome hemorrhoid? But surely to another kinlord he cannot be entirely–”

“He wants me to steal an Elder Scroll from this very tower, and if I do not obey, I face execution upon return to the Summerset Isles.”

Ohmonir's mouth fell open. “What gives him the right to pass judgment on another high kinlord?”

“The will of the Thalmor, if ignoring their demands is tantamount to treason. Ohmonir, how much has he told you of what is brewing at home?”

There was a stiff moment of silence. “He hasn't.”

“Nothing at all?” Kyndoril gripped his knee as another cramp set in. “Oh, by Stendarr's horn. Where should I even start.”

“Your tea? I can wait.”

The cup had been sitting there, warming the wood of the table. Oh, he was right. His voice had grown hoarse, and here was relief. And Ohmonir had gone to the trouble of pouring it for him. Tea was the best idea.

Tea was also the best way to handle breaking the news to Ohmonir, who went to get another cup for himself after hearing just two minutes of news.

“Honestly, nobody liked the Empire,” he whispered. “But I don't like _this_. What's Silabaene going to do with an Elder Scroll?”

“Something about a grand plan involving Auri-El and the High Aldarch, of all mer,” Kyndoril told him.

“I still don't know. What if he lied? What if he's just going to let you get caught and throw you to the humans? Look at what he did to me! Not that this is a bad outcome for me, but think about what he'd do to you!”

Oh, how he knew that. But there was far too much at risk to tempt Silabaene's wrath again. “I can't simply refuse him....”

“You faced the Mythic Dawn. What is one mer?”

“First of all, a werewolf and her adoring fan faced the Mythic Dawn. All I did was kill Mankar Camoran.”

Ohmonir blanched to the color of faded parchment. “You what?”

Kyndoril moved on before the memory could settle back into his mind. “Second, what is our alternative? Returning home in chains? Losing our heads? I don't want to give Silabaene an excuse to lay another finger on you. And... dear Cyrodwen, she's barely grown. If something happened to me _now_ , she'd....”

Exactly what would become of her, he didn't know. Stars only knew what his house and people were thinking now, now that he had been stranded in Tamriel, without contact, during Dagon's invasion of all events.

“We can worry about Silabaene later,” Kyndoril groaned. “Let us focus on returning to the isles before we act rashly.”

“My lord, with all respect... this isn't something I expected from the mer I met at sea.”

Kyndoril wanted to hate him for that remark, when it came from someone who at the time had been a thieving spy.

“What alternative is there?”

“When you were imprisoned in Anvil, I waited for you to request the aid of House Rilis. Instead you broke out of the dungeons. Silabaene tracked you to Skingrad and tried to drag you into an alliance with Rilis. You refused him. Oblivion broke loose and not only did you stop it, but you tracked Falion _and_ myself, again at the risk of angering Rilis. You aren't some highborn lapdog. You're a pest! Act like it!”

Kyndoril opened his mouth, but lost his response, and settled for finishing his tea instead. But Ohmonir shrank in his chair.

“My lord, forgive–”

“No, you're right. Stars, you're right. But a better course of action escapes me.”

“Well... you've escaped from prison before. And this is just a palace. Between us, we can find a way to run again.”

“I've thought of that, but that doesn't resolve the Elder Scroll problem. Silabaene will just find a way to take one for himself.”

“Would he? He seems reliant on you. If you remove yourself from his reach, it's over.”

“Over for all of us. I see no way to deny him and return safely home. If it is even possible to return at all. Unless....”

In the midst of his thoughts, the face of his mother appeared.

“I should not think,” he said carefully, “that High Kinlady Estivel would sit, idle, while the Thalmor run amok and House Rilis rears its head.”

His mother would probably hate being dragged back into Summerset affairs, but surely she would recognize the dire need. Surely she would recognize the need, if only for advice. And there was a way to contact her.

Ohmonir looked doubtful. “I... thought that Estivel disappeared years ago.”

“She did. And maybe I haven’t had any luck finding her. But that can change.”

Ohmonir was not convinced.

“Of course, my luck hasn’t exactly been improving,” Kyndoril admitted. “But... if we just act, just make this one investment toward our luck, maybe this will work?”

–

The first challenge was a simple one – convincing Ocato and the guards to let him roam outside of the center of the city. It was one thing for an elf respectful of the Divines and Septim bloodline to visit the Temple of the One in its district. But demanding to be escorted across the city? To the Arcane University of all places?

Ocato, ever the battlemage, seemed to have predicted this request back in Evening Star. He refused, and did not relent until after Kyndoril swore that would not enlist the guild's help in travel as he once had.

The second challenge was persuading Ocato to let Ohmonir accompany him, but that was easier. The High Chancellor had sympathy to spare for a mer who'd escaped House Rilis. And so the pair meandered into the Arboretum District and tried to forget the guard behind them.

“Isn't it a bit warm for winter?” Ohmonir asked.

“Winter? You've been indoors too long. It's already First Seed.”

“It's too cold for First Seed.”

“Cyrodiil, remember?”

The beginnings of First Seed were not the ideal time for a visit to the Arboretum. The trees were still bare, leaving the gray statues of the Imperial Divines to stand against nothing but the dull white of the buildings and oak trunks, and the walkways exposed to the sky.

“Anything north of Anvil is too cold.”

Kyndoril was inclined to agree, having spent most of his time at Cloud Ruler Temple near a fire or under blankets or a cloak. “Yes, but I suspect you'll hate the warmth of Magnus again soon enough. With luck, from the isles.”

Ohmonir's smile returned at the idea, but Kyndoril feared it a lie. He felt the weight of his bag, reminded himself that each of the several letters he'd copied for his mother were enclosed, and prayed that at least one would reach her as his earlier messages had not.

Soon they'd passed out of the Aboretum gate. Outside the Imperial City walls for the first time in months, Kyndoril paused. The rough, hilly wilderness of the city isle stretched far beneath the college bridge and to the shores of Lake Rumare, which itself spanned well into the distance.

Ohmonir caught him staring off to the west. “Yearning for Colovia, are we?”

“You know, I might just petition Ocato to let me stay on this bridge,” Kyndoril said. “Y'ffre's breath, that's a nice breeze.”

“What are you, a Falmer? My ears are frozen.”

“Well, as they say, those born under the Lord have more tolerance for the cold.”

“Truly?”

“No. Bruma was like stepping into the frigid armpit of Lorkhan. But this is pleasant.”

Kyndoril would have waited longer, just to see if he could get his guard to talk, but keeping Ohmonir out in the wind wasn't worth it. And so they moved on.

Once they'd finally crossed the long bridge and arrived at the gates, Kyndoril turned to face the guard. “My business is very personal, so I'll have to ask you to wait here.”

“Very well.”

“And don't worry. I doubt this will be long.”

–

The Mages Guild had a crisis of its own. The Arch-Mage had died, under circumstances the guild did not wish to describe. Everyone had assumed that Estivel would take his place. But she had visited them once, only to deliver news of Mannimarco's return _and_ demise, then vanished as suddenly as she had arrived.

Those remaining in the Arcane University had taken Kyndoril's letters and promised to scatter them to the rest of the guildhalls. But neither they, nor he, had much hope that a single one would reach the rightful Arch-Mage.

Kyndoril and Ohmonir returned to their suite, and spent the rest of their day trying not to dread Silabaene's plans. Or to dwell on the horrifying fact that Mannimarco, King of Worms, had been alive... or as alive as a lich could be, and active while they'd been in Cyrodiil.

But days passed, and no answer arrived from outside. And Silabaene's patience grew thin. Kyndoril waited to be ordered to action, and the decision he would have to make.

“You seem ill at ease,” Ohmonir told him as another night fell. “You really ought to relax, you know.”

Kyndoril leaned next to the window and stared down at the city. Pinpricks of torchlight and braziers already lit the roads. He imagined himself down there again, not avoiding the attention of the guards, but free to move however he wished, without an Alinoran sword poised over his head.

“And what would you suggest, Ohmonir?” he asked. “I can already hear his voice. I dare not provoke his wrath again, but....”

“Is it worth dreading tonight?”

Kyndoril felt a gentle hand across his arm and turned to face Ohmonir. His eyes were cautious, but they held something he had not seen in him since their days on the sea.

“Perhaps not.”

–

The night’s bliss lulled him into a comfortable sleep. He stirred at some early hour, only to hear Ohmonir whisper something and pull the blankets back over his shoulders before he dozed off once more.

The Hawk brought wind and a warning. But before it could open its beak, mortal words carried him back into the waking world.

“Message for you, lord.”

Kyndoril pried his eyes open and lifted his head to see Ohmonir standing over the bed, fully dressed for the occasion of sitting around all day, sealed letter in hand.

“What time is it?”

“Not quite noon.”

“You let me sleep this late?”

“You're the kinlord. And you looked comfortable. Now that you're awake....”

Ohmonir set the letter on top of Kyndoril's head, bowed, and left the room. And Kyndoril waited until the door closed to cast a small light, open the seal, and begin reading. The handwriting was unfamiliar.

_Kyndoril,_

_Thank you for your assistance in Anvil. Though I am sorry for the trouble I caused, I was pleased to hear of your heroics. I could not have placed that necklace in more capable hands._

He snarled. The Gray Fox! Of all the _nerve_....

_You should not be surprised to know that I have ears in the Imperial City. And my ears have heard of your troubles. I know what you're after and why, and I do not trust the one making that demand of you. Our friend in the temple has told me everything that you learned while in Anvil..._

A friend? In the temple? It took some time to remember, but of course. That Dunmer, Rhylus, had contact with the Gray Fox himself.

… _and I hope you understand why keeping your oath would be dangerous._

_You should know that what you seek lies in private rooms above the Imperial library, where only the Moth Priests may access its secret knowledge. Such a sacred treasure is jealously guarded as I am sure you have guessed. In your way are wards that repel forced entry, reveal life, dispel disguises and invisibility. I doubt your employer is ignorant of this._

Well, leave it to Silabaene to set an impossible task.

_I won't question your skill. Your family has a reputation for magic. If you find a way in, take the scroll, but consider Anvil. You will know where to go. I cannot promise what your employer has offered, but I would grant you all that is within my power to give._

There was no signature. Kyndoril read it again. Then he glanced at the bottom, where a last-minute addition had been scribbled.

_Burn this, for the love of the Divines._

Kyndoril set the letter aside, pulled fresh clothes on, and then prepared to dispose of the evidence. On his way to the hearth, he stopped by Ohmonir.

“And who brought this?”

“Whoever it was that brought the food,” said Ohmonir. “Found it under a platter.”

“Did you see their face?”

“Same human as ever.”

“Hm. I suppose thieves would cover their tracks.”

“What?”

Kyndoril, instead of answering, tossed the Gray Fox's letter into the fire. “See that smoke? That's Silabaene's ambition, right there.”


	29. Elder's Knowledge

_High Kinlady Estivel,_

_By the time you have read this, I will have failed you. That is not how a letter should start, but you always told me to be straightforward._

_The other house has made its move, and I refuse to be their pawn in this. What they demand is too much of a threat to Cyrodiil and the Isles alike. And I doubt that my cooperation would have saved my hide._

_I understand my next actions mean that my titles and birthright are forfeit. I don't doubt your will or strength should you attempt to intervene, but the other house holds great sway, and the rising Heritance sentiment in Summerset would make it difficult to plead my case before the High King._

_Cyrodwen will make a fine kinlady. I just hope that she can forgive me. I will not ask you to._

_Your idiot son,_

_Kyndoril_

–

The idiot son folded the letter and sealed it with wax. And there it sat at his desk; his conviction to defy House Rilis, despite all consequence, put into irrevocable words on paper. Once he passed it on, he knew he would have to go through with it all... or else risk bothering a powerful sorcerer only to infuriate her with his own cowardice.

But no. He had been over the plan with Ohmonir. The mer waited quietly in one of the plush chairs, turning his half-empty teacup between long fingers.

It would soon be dusk. And there was no more time to wait. Kyndoril rose, offered a brief prayer to Trinimac for courage, and crossed the parlor to hand the letter over. Then he took the silver ring from his pocket.

“This... is enchanted,” Kyndoril told him. “I want you to take it with you. If I do not join you within three days or... you're accosted, forget me. Run. Without me. Go wherever you please, live however you wish.”

“I'm... touched.”

“It's a little more than a memento. If, at the moment you place it on your finger, you concentrate on where you wish to travel, it will take you there. You just can't travel tremendous distances or across great spans of water.”

“So you want me to use this to run,” Ohmonir said.

“If it comes to it. After that, it will need a soul. A small one will work.”

“What, a lord of Luxurene telling me to use souls?”

“Please. It used to belong to a Reach witch.”

“That makes more sense.”

Kyndoril bent down, hesitated, and then pressed his lips to Ohmonir's forehead. “Aedra willing, you will see me again tonight.”

Ohmonir, as Kyndoril had learned, had never truly been confined as he was. He had been free to leave and return as he pleased, if unaccompanied, for he was no prisoner. Only his fear of encountering Silabaene had kept him in that suite with him.

This made the first step easy. Ohmonir quietly left, and let the guards assume that he was on a simple errand. And Kyndoril retreated to his bedchamber to prepare for the night to come.

He picked up his old mithril. That was too precious to leave behind, and if something went wrong, he would want it between himself and a blade. Wearing it between layers of casual clothing was more of a challenge – one that made him consider and don his white robe instead.

He braided his hair carefully and pinned it to the back of his head, where it would not catch on anything or get in the way. The appearance left his face a bit sharper than he was used to, and the neatness of his hair left a bit to be desired, but as he reminded himself, it was not as if he intended to be seen.

The rest of his choices were mere necessities. His bag and coinpurse, scant supply of soul gems, spare clothes. The silver blade buckled at his hip, Aedra forbid he need it.

Just in case, he rearranged the pillows and blankets of his bed, hoping to create the illusion that a very tall elf was nestled inside, not to be disturbed. With luck, it would work for at least three seconds. Maybe even five.

There was no more reason to linger.

Kyndoril hovered by the door and put his knowledge of magical theory to the test. All living things gave off some amount of magicka. But sensing that required expanding his own, to a trying distance.

Magnus be praised, the theory was enough. There was one person in the hall, a fair distance away, walking in the other direction.

He cast a muffling spell on himself and slowly opened the door. And when no alarm was raised and no one came running, he slipped out and shut it quietly behind him. Then, he set off, following the route that Silabaene had described. Through the hall, toward the end.

By chance, he thought to try detecting life again, and revealed someone's approach. With little time to think, he stepped behind a column and held his breath. Lantern light came around the bend, followed by the heavy footsteps of the palace guard.

Oh, if only he could make himself invisible.

Would his wise ancestor teach him, he wondered, as the guard passed. When he did not respond, he tried asking again as a direct prayer. But he remained silent.

I could really use help now, Kyndoril tried.

Either his wise ancestor was occupied with Aetherial business, or he had somehow offended him during his confinement. Not a happy prospect.

He crept out of his hiding place once more and continued, every step leaving him feeling far less bold. Eventually he came to a door. One magically locked and warded. And his own spell was not enough to open the way.

Honored ancestor, please, I _need_ _help,_ Kyndoril tried. Before someone comes and finds me crouching here.

An overwhelming presence filled the air, followed by a booming voice. One that he feared would draw the attention of the guard. One that was shockingly familiar.

_ABSOLUTELY NOT!_

Kyndoril nearly yelped in his surprise. And he wondered how best to ask the question that now buzzed in his mind.

_You ask me to lend my power to the profit of some lord of Rilis? The WORST of lords to TERRORIZE the Summerset Isles this era? The sworn enemy of your mother? Have you no shame?_

Kyndoril cringed and wrung his hands. And gathered his courage.

Vanus? You...?

_I am MOST DISAPPOINTED IN YOU._

Sir, I hold deepest respect for you, Kyndoril prayed, but I'm very confused and in very real danger.

_I will NOT be distracted._

Kyndoril flinched under the Great Mage's fury, and cast his magicka around again to make sure no one else was near.

Vanus, I'm not giving the scroll to Silabaene, he explained.

_Then WHAT is your intent?!_

Okay so maybe giving it to the Gray Fox isn't the best idea, he admitted. But Silabaene can't have it, can he? Just trust me. I will not deliver the Elder Scroll to Silabaene.

_Very well. I will HOLD you to YOUR WORD._

The door's lock clicked audibly, and Kyndoril moved on. Contrary to his fears, Vanus did not abandon him. The Great Mage apparently had nothing better to do than lurk and point things out to his old student.

Why, though, he had to wonder.

_Is it not obvious? If I were to abandon you, you would be ALONE. And an elf left alone has nobody to point out traps and guards. It is in your interests if you are accompanied._

Vanus punctuated this by pointing out a doorway. _Do not walk through that until I have dispelled its ward. Unless you WANT to draw the attention of EVERY GUARD IN THIS TOWER._

A man did warn me about that, Kyndoril thought. But he had not considered how to dispel it.

_There. It is safe. No need to THANK me._

Kyndoril did anyway, and tiptoed into the library.

_Why do you move so TIMIDLY when your feet are muffled? Have more faith in your magic._

Oh, it's a habit, Kyndoril had to admit. Magnus only knows how all the non-magically-inclined do their work.

_SKILLfully. How much do you know about your mother's wife? Wait, this isn't the time...._

Kyndoril eased the library door closed before he could forget, then paused to examine his surroundings. Which were, of course, quite dark. Once he'd applied the night-eye spell that he now suspected Vanus had shown him, he was more able to see the towering shelves, the ladders, the tables.

_Not ALL Moth Priests have lost their sight. They spend MANY YEARS in STUDY before the Elder Scrolls take their vision. THOUSANDS of years of IMPERIAL HISTORY and Tamrielic lore are in these rooms. Though, much of it is only relevant to the last few hundred years._

The Septims didn't try to overshadow that much, did they?

_YES, but no. Most of the library was LOST during the Planemeld. It was luck that OTHER kingdoms were able to replace so much of what was destroyed._

And the Elder Scrolls are truly in a place like this?

_A few at most. It's IMPOSSIBLE to know the location or number of all of the Elder Scrolls. They're older than ANYTHING WE KNOW._

Even the Aedra?

_That depends on the NATURE of the Aedra and the Scrolls!_

Even you don't know?

_SOME things are presumptuous and dangerous to EVEN consider trying to divine. No, we must WORK with what we have._

Kyndoril searched for life again, but found none that wasn't prone and stationary on some floor above or below. Except, of course, for the guards, whose patrol did not include the library.

Then he sought the Elder Scroll. Above the library, the Gray Fox had said. He found the way up quickly; by a smaller stairwell within the library itself.

_You SHOULD learn to identify and clear these wards yourself_ , Vanus told him as the magic vanished from the steps in front of him. _I can't help you with ALL of your thefts._

Auri-El willing, this will be the end of it, Kyndoril thought. Though, admittedly, he wasn't sure what life he would make for himself once it was all over. What did the Gray Fox have to offer, besides a place in his guild or whatever riches a master thief hoarded? Gold would not quell Silabaene’s ire, and a crook’s word was nothing before a court in Cyrodiil or Summerset. No, perhaps he and Ohmonir could hide within the Mages Guild, or the church, or even – dare he think? – learn a trade.

_Be WARNED. There is powerful magic ahead. Proceed SLOWLY and with caution! I will dispel what obstacles I can!_

You are without a doubt the best mage there has ever been, Kyndoril prayed. You know that, right?

_YES. Now let me concentrate._

Up the stairs he crept, as faint traces of magical traps and snares disappeared from his path, until finally he reached the landing.

And... there it was. Tucked away into a narrow compartment in the shelves of the Moth Priests' private study was a single Elder Scroll, glowing gently, humming with ancient magic.

Kyndoril took a moment to prepare himself, and what Vanus said next told him that it was wise.

_JUST so you ARE AWARE! Once you take that Elder Scroll, the Imperial Palace will be ALERTED to your presence! It will be as though the words 'Kyndoril picked up the Elder Scroll' flashed before their eyes!_

Vanus, you're kidding me.

_If only! If you are LUCKY, they will not know your name or face until they catch you. But the Elder Scroll is a magical BEACON! Picture a beam of light cast toward the heavens, if you would!_

Can't you hide it?

_You OVERESTIMATE my abilities._

Mother said you destroyed one of Molag Bal's most terrible anchors. While recovering from having your energy stolen. You can't just... somehow obscure an Elder Scroll?

_I can try. I make NO promises. Once you take the Scroll, you will need to ABSCOND with HASTE._

Kyndoril looked at the Elder Scroll. Then considered how to carry it. After an awkward minute of fretting, trying to calculate the dimensions of the Scroll, and thinking about potential escape routes, he rearranged the contents of his bag. Oh, it would never fit. Not entirely. But it was the best option he had.

With one last glance around and prayer to the gods, Kyndoril slipped the Elder Scroll from the shelf and into his bag. Something shifted in the air.

_Get moving,_ Vanus warned him. _They KNOW the Scroll has been disturbed._

Without wasting any more time on doubt or fear, Kyndoril closed his bag, threw it over his shoulders, and cast the strongest muffling spell he could manage. Then he broke into a run, fled down the stairs, and emerged into the lower levels of the library, amazed that his long legs and robes had not tripped him. He searched for life again.

Sleeping Moth Priests had begun to stir and at least one person approached the library with a swiftness that could only signal a guard, or....

Ocato, the High Chancellor, the Imperial Battlemage himself, hands blazing with harsh white light.

Kyndoril froze, overcome with terror. But before he could surrender then and there, Vanus returned to his ear.

_You're INVISIBLE to the EYE! Go, before I lose the spell!_

And somehow, he forced his legs to keep working properly. He dodged out of Ocato's path and made for the outer hall before the battlemage found the thief already gone. And he sprinted, not pausing for wind, constantly feeling for any threats ahead.

The guards had started to alert each other. Ocato must have spread word that something was amiss. But they did not hear his silent boots even on the hard floors of the White-Gold Tower, or see through the shroud of magic that Vanus had given him. It was only a matter of keeping out of the guards' way. That and moving, so that Ocato and the Moth Priests did not have a chance to catch up.

If only a spell could replenish his stamina, Kyndoril screamed in his mind, as his lungs burned and his legs demanded rest. And he willed himself on, until at last the stairs ended and he came to what he knew to be the ground floor of the tower, until the doors into the city were in sight.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

Kyndoril turned to face one of the guard, who could obviously see him now. The sudden rush of dizziness inspired his chosen spell. The guard collapsed upon the floor, unconscious. And Kyndoril ran.

The cold First Seed air stung his sweating face. And though he tried to disappear into the dark of the night, the shouts coming from the palace drew the attention of the city guard.

Time was his enemy. But as the guard caught word of a suspicious person – a thief somewhere in the district – his way out grew more perilous, demanding caution, care, and so many seconds that he could not afford to waste.

Desperate, Kyndoril clung to the shadows, muffling his steps even when it seemed excessive, darting behind the backs of passing patrols. Waiting, for extended minutes, while ever more watchful guards walked by, raising lanterns and torches to cast their light farther.

Once, then twice, he found himself forced to remove a more observant guard. It was fine, he told himself. They would be found fast asleep behind the hedges of Green Emperor Way, and he would be far away before they woke.

The Arboretum was a little easier, once he made it to the trees. The shadows of the branches gave him enough cover, and the oaks and statues were broad enough to hide him from the eyes of passersby.

Kyndoril expected the difficulties to return as he approached the Arcane University. It was, after all, on the other end of a long bridge, with nothing to hide behind, and plenty of seasoned battlemages waiting to fend off necromancers, invaders, and thieves.

But as he began the crossing, the night itself fell quiet and still.


	30. The Light of Auridon

His first sight, upon inspecting the area, was a large lump on the ground, beneath the steps of the Arch-Mage's tower. Something else was sprawled nearby. Despite the danger of revealing himself, Kyndoril cast a spell of light.

It fell upon a pair of bodies, both pale, both in robes stained dark. Fresh blood still pooled beneath them. There was no trace of life left.

Had he been more of a kinlord, or without caution, he might have cried murder and brought someone running. However, he knew that any someones lingering nearby might have been the murderer. He had just enough lack of sense to step over the cooling bodies and through the open doors of the tower.

Another person was slumped against the wall, on the far end of the room. And there was enough torchlight that once he crossed a certain distance, it was easy to see just who it was.

Ohmonir sat there, clutching his arm, his face wrinkled in pain. His sleeve was stained with a growing, darkening line of red.

“By the gods,” Kyndoril whispered. “What's happened?”

Ohmonir tried to speak, but danger announced itself with soft footsteps somewhere ahead. A tall figure appeared, cloaked in the void and stars, radiant magicka signaling his doom.

High Kinlord Silabaene closed every door out with a small gesture.

“And here you are....” Silabaene's voice rose, triumphant. “You never were quite as slippery as that elusive witch you call your mother, boy.”

“My... mother? What business do you have with the High Kinlady of Luxurene?”

“So I have been asked. In Anvil. In Chorrol. And now, here before me – insolence.”

Kyndoril's eyes caught sight of more mages, of _carnage_. A quick look at his own boots revealed he'd tracked red across the floor.

“Silabaene,” Kyndoril said, “tell me this wasn't you.”

“Oh, no. When dawn breaks, all of the city will wonder why _you_ broke into this tower and slaughtered so many, and with an Elder Scroll of all things in your possession.”

“Then all of this was a trap. I should have guessed.”

“What use is a trap without vermin? Your very presence betrays your guilt – your intention to betray Alinor. The High King will be pleased that I've exposed such a risk.”

“You've no right to judge traitors when you would go this far for power!”

“Power? What use do I have for more of _that?_ ” Silabaene retorted. “No, these simpletons would not understand a simple question. Just as you would not _obey_.”

Kyndoril watched as the High Kinlord of Firsthold, the light of Auridon and beloved of the Crystal Tower, wiped an errant spatter off his bleached leather glove. And he fought to suppress his disgust.

“How many people did you kill tonight?”

“How do any amount of Imperial lives contribute to the glory of Alinor? Firsthold will continue to prosper, whether or not a few worms lie in the dirt. My subjects will know the blessings of serving under House Rilis. These dead will have no such privilege.”

It was surreal to see that mer clench his teeth.

“And as for you... your lands and peasants will wither. See the harm you have wrought upon your secondhand wretch!”

Silabaene threw a hand at Ohmonir, who stared back with pleading amber eyes.

“I should end that life tonight,” Silabaene went on. “If it is so willing to betray its former masters.”

“Stop!”

But Silabaene did not move. “You know the law, Kyndoril. A servant who commits a crime against another lord must be turned over to receive due punishment.”

“He had no part in this! Ohmonir has done nothing to wrong you!”

But a pained groan from Ohmonir caught his ear. Kyndoril looked back to him, to see him slowly shaking his head. “It doesn't... matter...,” Ohmonir cried. “It doesn't....”

Ohmonir abruptly crashed back against the wall, as if slammed by an invisible hand. One manipulated by... Silabaene. “Of course you don’t. Be still.”

The gravity of the moment finally sank in. Ohmonir was in no shape to recover and walk away alive. Silabaene had so easily destroyed the battlemages guarding the university. And... the Elder Scroll still rested in his bag.

Silabaene controlled the tower. There was no escaping; that was not Silabaene's will. But....

A voice in the back of his head, one that was not entirely his own, screamed that Silabaene had gone much too far. And that was a font to his courage, his willpower.

Before he knew what he was doing, his hands moved. And magicka took the form of lightning, cracked, and struck.

Silabaene had managed to sense it and ward himself. But his long, blond hair was disturbed by the burst, and his violet eyes widened in shock. And that sight was enough to encourage him.

“Murderer!” Kyndoril roared. And his voice wasn't alone. Whatever rage the ancestors could lend, he welcomed it. “I will bring you to justice myself!”

Silabaene answered with a burdening, clawing grip that tore at his soul. He shrugged it off with a whirlwind that crackled with sparks, hurled his next spell with hands wrapped in lightning.

The High Kinlord drew so close, Kyndoril could see the finest lines in his clay-mask face. “Will you, boy?”

The ancestors screamed through his fingers, but he could not move. He whispered, probably, his mother’s name. Silabaene’s face contorted, unsculpted itself hideously.

“I wonder if killing you will summon her at last,” the High Kinlord said. “I assumed owning you would be enough.”

Kyndoril forced the mer back, realization and fear fighting pure outrage. “As long as Estivel lives, you will _never_ have claim to my island.”

“I had hoped you’d marry yourself into my lands,” Silabaene said. Then he hurled Kyndoril across the stone floor and through the tower’s portal. “But times will change. There’s always conquest.”

Kyndoril pulled himself out of a collapsed bookshelf to see Silabaene emerge from the arcane light and pull one plait back behind his milky ear.

The fight raged – a show of lightning that he had never before commanded and the terrible and blue un-light of Oblivion. All while Kyndoril hoped it would end quickly, that nobody else would stumble upon their battle, that Ohmonir would not be caught in it. As long as he kept Silabaene's attention, that was avoidable, Kyndoril told himself. All he had to do was give him everything, shield himself, neither impossible with the holy art of Destruction....

But even a cloak of lightning was not enough for the wide gout of flame that sped his way. No, a harder ward, one not entirely of heavenly or earthly forces was needed. And... it worked. A noble cause to summon Oblivion’s shield.

Silabaene, for the mess his robes and hair had become, did not seem at all worried at all. This was all trivial to him. At the most, he was disgusted. “What power have you stolen now, thief?”

There was no point in answering such a thing. Kyndoril began to move slowly clockwise, fending off the assault and turning his back to the exit. Silabaene did not care, probably because he did not care what orientation a mer might die in.

This would end quickly, by Silabaene’s hand or his own. Kyndoril tried another spell.

What worked on Mankar Camoran’s blind ego had no effect on Silabaene. He did not drop, lost in sleep. Of course. That would have been too easy. An inglorious defeat for a mighty lord of Summerset.

“Resorting to petty trickery now? Come! Renounce the witch, and I might just let your little island keep its bastard lordling!”

He felt his energy begin to fade. Whatever force had joined him started to wane, despite its growing fury.

There was no defeating Silabaene. Not with his own magic. Not with the limits of what the ancestors could grant him. He knew it in his heart and mind, and that Silabaene had no kind use for him, or whatever plea he could think of, or his status.

At best, he could escape.

It all fell into place. It was so simple that it was laughable.

Without any warning, or even a 'Behold!', Kyndoril cast his spell.

A blinding magelight erupted in front of Silabaene's face, drawing a shout and curses that he would not repeat to anyone. Kyndoril leaped into the portal, flying on a bolt of lightning. Something exploded, stone was raining down when he re-appeared. He hurtled to Ohmonir's side.

The mer whimpered something, and Kyndoril searched his hands, then pockets. And he found the silver ring.

The ceiling collapsed, a demon of white fire descending from Aetherius. He had one, two seconds at the most. Kyndoril locked arms with Ohmonir and shoved the ring onto his own finger.

The Arch-Mage's tower vanished. Somewhere far away, High Kinlord Silabaene screamed.


	31. Mara's Mercy

The undercroft of the Chapel of Dibella replaced the ruined tower. Kyndoril cast another light and looked around frantically, praying to all gods that Silabaene had not seized some part of his body or clothing in the last instant. But he wasn't there.

With no wall to support him, Ohmonir sagged and sank to the floor, shivering and cursing.

“Let me see your arm,” Kyndoril sighed. “Come on, Ohmonir.”

Ohmonir whined something and tears leaked down his face. And all the noise drew attention. A voice Kyndoril had not heard in months called out, “Who's there?”

“Rhylus!”

The old mer stepped into the light and gave Ohmonir one look, and his wrinkled face contorted in revulsion. “Gods! What have you dragged here?”

“He's hurt. There's little time, you need to....”

“Quiet, kid....”

Rhylus bent over Ohmonir, searching his neck and arms for a pulse. “Bring my bag. Now.”

Kyndoril leapt back to his feet and raced for the corner where he knew Rhylus kept his things. The leather bag and its many pockets of gods-knew-what were still there. When he returned, Rhylus had found the wound – a gash somewhere above the elbow. Terrible streaks of red and purple had shot across the skin.

Rhylus worked swiftly, drawing vials, muttering something about Ohmonir being too delirious to care.... Kyndoril couldn't see what happened, from his place behind Rhylus' back, but Ohmonir groaned in pain and tried to pull away.

“Calm down, you. You needed the antidote. You, elf king! Hold him up for me. I won't have him choke.”

Kyndoril went to assist. Ohmonir still burned and shook with fever. Rhylus uncorked another small bottle and raised it to Ohmonir's lips. “Come on. Drink up. You'll feel better soon.”

Somehow, he got Ohmonir to take the whole potion. When they were sure he had swallowed, Rhylus nodded for him to lay him back down. The shaking and groaning began to subside. And Rhylus examined him again, face blank.

“Had a rough day, didn't you.”

Ohmonir whimpered.

“This is the Great Chapel of Dibella. I am its keeper. You may rest here as long as you need. I'm going to fetch some bedding for you. Can't have you sleeping on the cold floor now, hm?”

For a few glorious seconds, Kyndoril hoped that Ohmonir was saved. But Rhylus turned to him, frowned, and shook his head. And he did not dare to react. Not in front of Ohmonir.

“Don't go anywhere yet, blondie. And move _that thing_ out of sight!”

Kyndoril looked at his half-open bag, Elder Scroll poking out and still humming with light and Aetherial resonance on the dusty floor, and dragged it into the alcove with the rest of Rhylus' things. And then he went to comfort Ohmonir.

He was still far too warm. And Kyndoril felt for his pulse, under the pretense of taking his hand. It was faint.

“I should never have asked that of you,” Kyndoril said. “But it's all right now. We're safe. And Silabaene doesn't have the Elder Scroll. I owe you so much.”

Ohmonir stared at him with bleary eyes. “Please.... I'm so tired....”

Kyndoril's heart skipped. “No! I.... No mer of Luxurene sleeps on a bare floor if I can help it. Wait until Rhylus gets back. With your blankets.”

“Fine....”

Before long, the Dunmer had returned with armfuls of bedding and a pillow. But, and Kyndoril nearly jumped, someone else had followed Rhylus downstairs. A human.

“Yeah yeah, I know. Nothing to worry about, kid.”

The human stayed by the door and folded their hands to wait.

In just a moment, Rhylus had spread a blanket over the floor. “Help me with him. I'm five-hundred years too old for this.”

Together, the two of them lifted Ohmonir and moved him. His breathing had grown shallow. Rhylus continued his calm facade, fluffed the pillow for Ohmonir, and propped his head up on it. The rest of the blankets were draped over him with an unexpected care.

“How's that for you?” he asked.

Ohmonir said nothing. And Rhylus turned to walk away.

“Breakfast's at sunrise, so you'd better get some shut-eye.”

Kyndoril could have screamed. It was bad enough that Ohmonir had only minutes left at the most. It was worse that ending the lie, letting him pass on any last thoughts, would only distress him!

He clamped down on his shaking lips with his teeth and brushed Ohmonir's hair behind his ears. And for a few minutes, it seemed the mer might have drifted into sleep. But he opened his eyes.

“Why's... there a dog?” Ohmonir asked.

He sensed Mara's presence again. But whatever Ohmonir saw, he did not. “I think it's a friendly dog.”

“Can it... stay....”

“Well... I don't see why not. Yes. She can stay as long as you like.”

Ohmonir's eyes fell on him again. And a small flicker of surprise and recognition flashed across his face. “Please... stay with me....”

Kyndoril squeezed his hand and hoped that he couldn't see his tears. “I'm right here.”

Ohmonir gave a weak smile. The tension left his hand. And for a moment, he said nothing else. But... his eyes did not close. He did not even blink.

Kyndoril felt for a pulse again. It was gone.

Rhylus cleared his throat nearby. And spoke with a cracking voice. “Well, elf king?”

“He's... h-he's... with his ancestors.” Kyndoril did not care that his shoulders shook, or that he was sobbing, or that a human still lurked nearby.

“I'm sorry. I really am sorry, child.”

“You... did what you could. You made him comfortable.”

“Yes. And you had the composure of a king for him until the end. Not bad.”

Kyndoril drew a shaking breath. “Rhylus. What was that?”

“That was a nasty poison.”

“Obviously!”

Sorrow overtook him again. And with a patience he had never expected, Rhylus waited for him to calm himself and regain his breath.

“It is... difficult to explain the workings. But you saw the result. Fever. Delirium. An overworked heart, and then a sudden drop in his heart's strength. I tried to administer an antidote straight into his veins. But this time it was useless.”

“And the potion?”

“Something to block the rest of the pain. To let him die in peace. And he got to die with a friend and a dog keeping him company. It shames me that this is all we could manage.”

Kyndoril looked back down and gently pulled Ohmonir’s eyelids closed. “I could not expect more from anyone.”

The old Dunmer shook his head. “Someone wanted this poison to be painful and irreversibly lethal. Who did this to him?”

The memory of the face, perfect and cold, sickened him. “High Kinlord Silabaene of House Rilis. He must have stabbed him when he tried to flee the city.”

“Flee the...? Wait, and _who_ is this?”

“Ohmonir. The one who stole my ring. Silabaene planned to have him executed after I caught him, but he threw him to me instead. And then he... he killed him anyway... and all those mages.... Oh gods, it's all my–”

“Oh no. Never go blaming yourself for the whims of evil bastards, kid.... It's not good for your heart or your brains. Silabaene was ready to kill someone. He.... Oh, Meridia's shining cheeks. That's what he wanted with all that nightshade, isn't it....”

Rhylus turned to the door, where the human now leaned against the wall. “A word, please!”

The human walked over to join him, and as Kyndoril stood he tried to place where he'd seen him before. But he was a very plain man, unremarkable, the most average of Colovian faces he'd ever laid eyes on. He wore the hide and cotton of Gold Coast commoner, but there was nothing else to note.

“No need to explain,” said the man. “I heard everything.”

“Have we met?” Kyndoril asked. “Forgive me. I feel as if I know you, but....”

“You wouldn't recognize me. Now... hmmm... would you mind leaning down here? You're much too tall to reach....”

“Why?”

“Trust him like you trusted me,” Rhylus told him. “For your own sake.”

Kyndoril obeyed and bent down to a more even level with the Colovian. And before he could react, the man raised something dark, something magical, and pulled it down over his head.

“You can open your eyes, you know,” said the man.

Kyndoril did. It was... a mask. With holes for his eyes and the bottom of his nose, his mouth and chin. It felt leathery.

“What is– Wait! I know you!”

The man frowned. “No...? You shouldn't.”

“Yes! You're that thief who got me arrested at the docks!” Kyndoril exclaimed. “And you're that servant from the palace! You're the Gray Fox!”

“I'm not the Gray Fox. You are.”

“That's absurd. I....”

Kyndoril realized what had just been pulled over his face. He pulled it off and turned it to stare at the faint blue glow of daedric runes.

“Yeah, that's still the same elf kid,” Rhylus said. “And come to think of it, your face _is_ familiar again, Corvus....”

“Then the curse is broken,” the Colovian said. “Without....”

“What? Corvus?” Kyndoril looked back at the Colovian. “I remember that name.”

It had been years ago, one of the first matters of dire importance to come to his court. The Count of Anvil had disappeared. The Countess had been stricken with worry. The news had spread all over the Abecean, and kinlords had been asked to notify every vessel. They had never found him.

“And you were hiding here?” Kyndoril asked. “As the Gray Fox? All this time?”

“That thing you're holding is Nocturnal's cowl,” the man said. “It confounds everyone who looks at the wearer. You could put the cowl on right in front of me, and I wouldn't recognize you until you took it off again. But, it was stolen from Nocturnal long ago and she laid a curse on it. I was not the thief, but all who wore the cowl lost their identity, permanently. Even my own wife didn't know me. But if Rhylus can recognize me, and both of us still know your face, that curse is broken. What I don't understand is why. Where is the Elder Scroll?”

Kyndoril pointed at the alcove.

“We'll have to hide it for a while,” said Corvus. “Rhylus, put it somewhere secret. I'll have instructions later. And... as for the poor man over there... I'll send someone to retrieve him soon. He's a High Elf, isn't he?”

“Yes,” Kyndoril told him. “He should be interred in Summerset, but... the ships....”

Corvus laid a hand over his shoulder. “We'll find a way to send him home eventually. Do you need anything else?”

“No.... That is all. Thank you.”

But no, he realized, once Corvus had ascended from the crypt again. There _was_ another matter. Another life at stake.

He ran to catch up to him. “One moment!”

Corvus stopped and turned.

“Count of Anvil,” Kyndoril gasped. “There is a mer. An elf in your castle. His name is Falion, and if he does not leave, he will be in grave danger.”

“What do you mean?”

“He's from the court of House Rilis. Silabaene will surely seek him now, and you saw what became of Ohmonir. Hide him, I beg you, before Silabaene's wrath finds him....”

“You're asking a lot. But I'll try to find a place for him, before I leave the guild for good. As for you.... Try not to get arrested again.”

He could have hugged the man. But he held himself back, gave a stoic nod, and retreated to the chapel undercroft once more.

He hated himself for thinking of it. But as he passed Rhylus again, he asked, “What news of Umaril?”

“Hostile as ever.”

“Leave me for him. One more time.”


	32. Flight of the Lord

The world turned every hue imaginable, and white, once more. Kyndoril faced the towering mer, Ayleid dragon armor and all. And this time, he offered little more than a short bow.

“Umaril.”

“You again? It has been long since we last met. I thought you had run, but here you are. Do you have a death wish, mortal?”

“Oh, no. I still fear death as much as any mortal mer,” Kyndoril admitted. “Still your wrath. Hear me before you strike. There are things you should know.”

“Fine. Say your last words.”

“I come before you as a fallen king, brought to ruin by my own foolishness. Just as you are bound to Meridia... my fate is now in the hands of Nocturnal. My only chance to live now is as a shadow, flitting across a Cyrodiil that will by sunrise be after my head.

“I have labored under the hope that the Aedra would guide me to a good and fruitful victory. It did not end as I hoped.

“But I tell you this. Every misfortune that has pushed me to this was caused by mortal doing. The Aedra did not abandon me. And they did not abandon elvenkind.”

Umaril's fury was bright on the air, but another presence burst into being between them and faced him. At first, Kyndoril thought he was looking at the back of an Ayleid woman. But her voice told him otherwise.

“Listen and quell your anger. He speaks the truth. Lorkhan's blood brought an age of peace, but it ensnared his killer. Auri-El is free from his prison because of a human's self-sacrifice, because of selflessness begot by mortal compassion. Tamriel may move forward, as you must.”

Whatever Umaril sputtered at Mara, he did not hear it. And in the blink of an eye, Umaril had vanished. Mara, Wolf once more, turned to face him. Kyndoril took a knee and bowed his head.

“I have not left you, child,” said Mara.

“Lady Mara, what has become of Umaril?”

“He has been sent to Aetherius at last. The Aurorans in his service will soon follow. Do not be afraid. Meridia will not resent us for this.”

“And... you took another shape?”

“Ah. Perhaps one day, you will understand. But know this: It is rare for any mortal to be so driven by the stars of their birth. The sun rises now near the stars you call the Lord. And you must venture north, away from this place.”

“How far must I go?”

“You will know the end when you reach it. That is all I will say.”

“Then... I thank you. I will let Rhylus know what has happened.”

“Before I go... Xarxes has asked me to deliver a message. It concerns the Elder Scroll you rescued from Silabaene's grasp.”

“Xarxes? What did they say?”

“Were I to tell you in the words of Xarxes, your ears would numb to all sound and your mind would never still. So, I will tell you in words you can understand....” Mara grinned. “Alas, the Dragon shall break. Time will sunder, splitting the interwoven destinies of mortals and gods. But Anu is prepared. Each Time shall give birth to the means to restore itself. Tamriel will live on, and a new age shall dawn upon Nirn.”

He stepped back. “A Dragon Break is upon us?”

“Peace, dear child. Do not be afraid. Already you have lived through such events. And here you are, well and whole. You will not even be aware when the hour arrives, and Time will mend itself given... hm... Time.”

“Perhaps it is good that Elder Knowledge clouds the sight over time. It spares the mind from having to learn even stranger truths.”

“Oh, to be a mortal. Now... I apologize. But you must wake. Anvil is no longer safe. Wake, and go. Go with my blessing. And... tell Rhylus one thing for me.”

–

Kyndoril awoke with a jolt, seized his bag, and hastily gathered new rations from the stash that Rhylus had made below the temple. Then he went to find the old Dunmer. He was dozing at his typical station, still surrounded by candles.

“Rhylus. I need to leave.”

The mer opened one eye. “I could have told you that. How was Umaril....”

“Umaril is at peace now. You don't have to fear him anymore. And... I have a message.”

“And what might that be?”

Kyndoril sighed. The mer in front of him... looked absolutely nothing like a hero of some ancient Dunmeri prophecy. And there he was. “You're free. Azura will ask no more of you. Meridia is satisfied with your service. Mara bids you live out your final years in peace.”

“'Bout damn time.... I'm too old for this. Bah.”

“Farewell, Nerevarine. It has been my honor.”

“Call me that again and I'll gut you.... Leave you for the shalks....”

“There aren't any shalks in Cyrodiil, muthsera.”

“Stendarr help you. I will find some.”

Kyndoril smiled. “You'll have to catch me first. Goodbye, Sir Lion-Tits. I will remember your kindness.”

“Of course you will. Psh. High Elves.”

Kyndoril withdrew the silver ring from his pocket, and considered his destination.

“Don't worry about Falion, kid,” Rhylus said. “Corvus has moved him to the protection of the guild. He's long gone by now.”

“Thank you. That eases my mind.”

“Take care of yourself. This will all blow over in time. Try not to spend your best years in exile, like I did. And if you need anything... I think the guild will be more than happy to assist the Gray Fox.”

“I should go.”

“Then go. The guards will never know you were here.”

His mind leapt to an unexpected place. Another temple, one to the north. As he fed the ring one more small soul, he thought of the irony....

Kyndoril slipped the ring onto his finger, and opened his eyes.

Weynon Priory was quiet before dawn. For a few minutes, he thought of entering, requesting shelter, offering to enter their fold.

But that was a terrible idea. One likely to end in the church selling him out.

Kyndoril walked around and found the stable. And to his immense surprise, a certain paint horse was resting within.

“Hello, good beast,” Kyndoril whispered.

The horse's ears swiveled, and after a moment, it turned to approach.

There was opportunity in this, he told himself. Bad opportunity, but he was already an outlaw, and Maborel, rest his soul, was not there to object. Kyndoril reached into his rations and found one of the apples that he had taken just minutes ago.

The horse accepted it. And hoping that was payment enough for the beast's trouble, Kyndoril found a bridle and saddle, then led the horse off into the Great Forest.

  
  


END


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